He stood peering down at her from his great height, his thoughts tumbling into words.
"Don't lie to me, Olga. You were not content with friendship. No woman ever is. You wanted me to do—what I have done."
"Perhaps," she admitted calmly, "but not the way you did it. Kissing should be done upon the soft pedal mon ami, adagio, con amore. Your technique is rusty. Is it a wonder that I am disappointed?"
She was mocking him again, but this time he was not deceived.
"Perhaps I will improve with practice," he muttered.
He would have seized her again but she eluded him, laughing.
"Thank you, no—" she cried.
He went toward her again, but she sprang behind the bench, Markham following, both intent upon their game. He had seized her again when suddenly over their very heads there was a sound of feminine laughter among the vines from which there immediately emerged a white satin slipper, a slender white ankle, followed quickly by another—draperies, and at last Hermia Challoner, who, swinging for a moment by her hands, dropped breathlessly upon the bench between them. Markham, whose nose had been narrowly missed by the flying slippers, drew back in astonishment.
"Hello!" panted Hermia, laughing. "Reggie was chasing me, so I slipped over the balustrade onto the pergola—" She stopped and looked with quick intuition from one to the other. "Sorry I blunder'd in here, though, Olga—awfully sorry. Did I kick you in the nose, Mr. Markham?"