She was not afraid of the storm. Life with the circus had made her quite impervious to the crash of thunder; the philosophy of Vagabondia had taught her that lightning is not dangerous unless it strikes. The circus man is a fatalist. A person dies when his time comes, not before. It is all marked down for him.
Of the two, David was certainly the more nervous. His arm was about her shoulders; her firm, slender body was drawn close to his. His clasp tightened as the timidity of inexperience gave way to confidence; an amazing sense of conquest, of possession took hold of him. He could have shouted defiance to the storm. He held her! This beautiful, warm, alive creature belonged to him!
"Are you afraid,—dearest?" he called, his lips close to her ear.
"Not a bit, David," she cried rapturously. "I love it. Isn't it wonderful?"
She turned her head on his shoulder. His lips swept her cheek. Before either of them knew what had happened their lips met—a frightened, hasty, timorous kiss that was not even prophetic of the joys that were to grow out of it.
"Oh, David, you must not do that!" cried the very maiden in her.
"Has any one ever kissed you before?" he demanded, fiercely jealous on a sudden.
She drew back, hurt, aghast.
"Why, David!" she cried.
He mumbled an apology.