“Oh, you’re bad enough,” she answered, “but you’re not clever enough.”
He smiled grimly. “I’m not sure though about the woman. Perhaps I’ll tell the good clever woman some day and let her help me, if she can. But I’d warn her it won’t be easy.”
“Then there’s another woman in it!”
He did not answer. He could not let her know the truth, yet he was sure she would come to know it one way or another.
At that moment she leaned over the table and stretched a hand to arrange something. The perfection of her poise, the beauty of her lines, the charm of her face seized Carnac, and, with an impulse, he ran his arm around her waist.
“Junia—Junia!” he said in a voice of rash, warm feeling.
She was like a wild bird caught in its flight. A sudden stillness held her, and then she turned her head towards him, subdued inquiry in her eyes. For a moment only she looked—and then she said:
“Take your arm away, please.”
The conviction that he ought not to make any sign of love to her broke his sudden passion. He drew back ashamed, yet defiant, rebuked, yet rebellious. It was like a challenge to her. A sarcastic smile crossed her lips.
“What a creature of impulses you are, Carnac! When we were children the day you saved Denzil years ago you flung your arms around me and kissed me. I didn’t understand anything then, and what’s more I don’t think you did. You were a wilful, hazardous boy, and went your way taking the flowers in the garden that didn’t belong to you. Yet after all these years, with an impulse behind which there is nothing—nothing at all, you repeat that incident.”