“It was very well done,” he said after they had landed that evening and were walking up to the house through the flower garden.
“Yes,” Mamie answered. “I am a very good actress. They always say so in the private theatricals.”
The evening colour had gone from the sky and the moon was already in the sky, not yet at the full. Mamie stood still in the path and plucked a rose.
“I can act beautifully,” she said with a low laugh. “Would you like me to give you a little exhibition? Look at me—so—now the moonlight is on my face and you can see me.”
She, looked up into his eyes, and once more her features seemed to be transfigured. She laid one hand upon his arm and with the other hand raised the rose to her lips, kissed it, her eyes still fixed on his, then smiled and spoke three words in a low voice that seemed to send a thrill through the quiet air.
“I love you.”
Then she made as though she would have fastened the flower in his white flannel jacket, and he, believing she would do it, and still looking at her, bent a little forward and held the buttonhole ready. All at once, she sprang back with a quick, graceful movement and laughed again.
“Was it not well done?” she cried, tossing the rose far away into one of the beds.
“Admirably,” George answered. “I never saw anything equal to it. How you must have studied!”
“For years,” said the young girl, speaking in her usual tone and beginning to walk by his side towards the house.