“Imprudent creature! Suppose Olive had been in!”
The great moment was taken in a livelier key than he had ever dreamed.
“But you were out,” he said, trying to respond to her lightness, though he trembled in every limb. He made a movement towards her. She shrank back against the shelf.
“Don’t!” she cried, gayly, “you’ll spoil your gloves.”
He dabbled them magnificently in a heap of plaster of Paris and advanced nearer.
“Now you’ll spoil my blouse,” she cried, moving hastily away to dip her hands in a bowl of water.
He tore off the gloves and threw them on the floor.
“Is that a challenge?” she laughed, drying her hands, but the laughter died in a gurgle. He had stopped her breath. She did not struggle, but lay in his arms silent like a tired, lovely child—at rest, at last, her happy face pressed to his. “Oh, my dear,” she murmured, cooingly. “And all those months you never kissed me once!”
“I did not dare,” he answered, with a pang of remorse. “You gave me no hint that you—that you cared for me.”
A beautiful blush blossomed and faded on her face. “But you should have understood. I needed the touch.” And her face nestled closer against his.