"Of course."
"Then we can't very well run away this afternoon."
"No. I suppose we can't," he muttered; and the impishness in her chuckled to see the puzzled thoughts chase themselves across his forehead.
How boyish he was--she thought--how utterly unlike the conventional unconventional lover. The maternal instinct awakened in her heart, and went out to the boy in him. She wanted to pat his head, to say: "Never mind, Ronnie. I'll arrange everything. You sha'n't be worried." Then she remembered that he wasn't a boy; that he was a man, her man.
The man in him burst out: "I wish to God that you needn't go back----"
"Go back?" His outburst frightened her.
"To his house----"
"But I must go back--for a day or two."
"Why should you?" His eyes were flame. "I hate it. I hate the idea of your being under his roof."
"Jealous?" she soothed, still afraid.