“Oh!” said Joan, in her pettish, discounting way.
“I mean every word of it, Joan. I can’t talk like––like––some men––my heart gets in the way, I guess, and chokes me off. But I never saw a girl that I ever lost sleep over till I saw you.”
Joan did not look at him as he drew nearer with his words. She pulled the stirrup down, lifted her foot to it, and stood so a second, hand on the pommel to mount. And so she glanced round at him, standing near her shoulder, his face flushed, a brightness in his eyes.
Quicker than thought Reid threw his arm about her shoulders, drawing her to him, his hot cheek against her own, his hot breath on her lips. Surging with indignation of the mean advantage he had taken of her, Joan freed her foot from the stirrup, twisting away from the 221 impending salute, her hand to Reid’s shoulder in a shove that sent him back staggering.
“I thought you were more of a man than that!” she said.
“I beg your pardon, Joan; it rushed over me––I couldn’t help it.” Reid’s voice shook as he spoke; he stood with downcast eyes, the expression of contrition.
“You’re too fresh to keep!” Joan said, brushing her face savagely with her hand where his cheek had pressed it for a breath.
“I’ll ask you next time,” he promised, looking up between what seemed hope and contrition. But there was a mocking light in his sophisticated face, a greedy sneer in his lustful eyes, which Joan could feel and see, although she could not read to the last shameful depths.
“Don’t try it any more,” she warned, in the cool, even voice of one sure of herself.
“I ought to have a right to kiss my future wife,” he defended, a shadow of a smile on his thin lips.