He made no reply. She laughed at his frowning brows. Once more his eyes were almost black. She forced humor into her own eyes lest he receive a hint of that curious sensation of something rising in her veins. But her laugh was infused with that voluptuous warmth bordering on hysteria by which young girls betray themselves when indulging in prolonged attacks of giggles. “You really believe it, you know. One night after a ball, when our fine clothes were new, you begged me to slip out and row on these meadows with you, and you had a Spanish cape over your blue satin coat and white——”
“You are rather unfair, you know.”
“Not a bit of it.” Her voice rose. “We’re merely reconstructing the past, not building up any kind of future. No obstacles in those days, although my irate papa probably boxed my ears when I got back and marched you off to the library to ask your intentions——”
“I’d hardly have put him to the trouble!”
Her eyes glowed. “Of course not!” she said softly. “Of course not!”
“Do you love me?” he asked harshly.
She shrank back and pulled the hood of her cape over her face. “You are Geoffrey Dedham asking that, of course.”
“I’ll be damned if I am. What’s come over you? I thought you were above flirting?”
“I am!” Her voice was muffled by more than the hood.
“Put that hood back.”