It was a foolish act, for he was not in love with Florence, and he had scarcely done it before his better sense told him that it was foolish. But it was done, and who can recall a kiss?
He saw the olive face grow pale, and for a moment she raised her arm as though to fling it about his neck, but next second she started back from him.
“Did you mean that,” she said wildly, “or are you playing with me?”
Ernest looked alarmed, as well he might; the young lady’s aspect at the moment was not reassuring.
“Mean it?” he said, “O yes, I meant it.”
“I mean, Ernest,” and again she laid her hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes, “did you mean that you loved me, as—for now I am not ashamed to tell you—I love you?”
Ernest felt that this was getting awful. To kiss a young woman was one thing—he had done that before—but such an outburst as this was more than he had bargained for. Gratifying as it was to him to learn that he possessed Florence’s affection, he would at that moment have given something to be without it. He hesitated a little.
“How serious you are!” he said at last.
“Yes,” she answered, “I am. I have been serious for some time. Probably you know enough of me to be aware that I am not a woman to be played with. I hope that you are serious too; if you are not, it may be the worse for us both;” and she flung his arm from her as though it had stung her.
Ernest turned cold all over, and realised that the position was positively gruesome. What to say or do he did not know; so he stood silent, and, as it happened, silence served his turn better than speech.