After a long time, in which there was conflict, she suddenly pressed her warm lips to Yvonne's in a kiss that thrilled through every nerve in her body—a kiss that lingered because it was returned with equal fervour and abandon. They were clasped tightly in each other's arms and their eyes were closed as with pain.
Then, in an abrupt revulsion of feeling, in a desperate awakening, Lydia relaxed. Her arms fell away from the warm, sweet body and her eyes widened with something that passed for confusion, but which was in reality shame. Almost roughly she pushed Yvonne away from her.
“I—I didn't mean to do that!” she gasped.
The other withdrew her arm and straightened up slowly, all the time regarding the girl with a strange, wondering look in her eyes—a look that quickly resolved itself into sadness so poignant that the girl, even in her confused state of mind, recognised it as such and was abashed.
“I knew that you would,” said Yvonne in a very low voice, and shook her head drearily.
“I am sorry,” murmured Lydia in great distress.
The other smiled, but it was a sad, plaintive effort on her part.
“I knew that you would,” she repeated.
Lydia sprang to her feet, her face suddenly flaming with embarrassment. She felt unaccountably guilty of—she knew not what.
“I must see Mr Brood. I stepped in to tell him that———” she began, trying to cover her confusion, but Yvonne interrupted.