“I’ve spoiled nothing. I’ve only been a fool—and it’s your own fault for being so pretty.”
“You’ve spoiled everything in the world! Now—” with a desolate horrible little sob, “now I can only go back—back!”
He had a queer idea that she spoke as if she were Cinderella and he had made the clock strike twelve. Her voice had such absolute grief in it that he involuntarily drew near her.
“I say,” he was really breathless, “don’t speak like that. I beg pardon. I’ll grovel! Don’t—Oh! Kathryn—come here.”
This last because at this difficult moment from between the banks of hot-house bloom and round the big palms his sister Kathryn suddenly appeared. She immediately stopped short and stared at them both—looking from one to the other.
“What is the matter?” she asked in a low voice.
“Oh! come and talk to her,” George broke forth. “I feel as if she might scream in a minute and call everybody in. I’ve been a lunatic and she has apparently never been kissed before. Tell her—tell her you’ve been kissed yourself.”
A queer little look revealed itself in Kathryn’s face. A delicate vein of her grandmother’s wisdom made part of her outlook upon a rapidly moving and exciting world. She had never been hide-bound or dull and for a slight gauzy white and silver thing she was astute.
“Don’t be impudent,” she said to George as she walked up to Robin and put a cool hand on her arm. “He’s only been silly. You’d better let him off,” she said. She turned a glance on George who was wiping his sleeve with a handkerchief and she broke into a small laugh, “Did she push you into the fountain?” she asked cheerfully.
“She threw the fountain at me,” grumbled George. “I shall have to dash off home and change.”