“A penny for them,” she interrupted his visioning. His answer was prompt.
“Praise to the Lord for one thing: you haven’t once mentioned Dick.”
“Do you so dislike him?”
“Be fair,” he commanded, almost sternly. “It is because I like him. Otherwise...”
“What?” she queried.
Her voice was brave, although she looked straight before her at the Fawn’s pricking ears.
“I can’t understand why I remain. I should have been gone long ago.”
“Why?” she asked, her gaze still on the pricking ears.
“Be fair, be fair,” he warned. “You and I scarcely need speech for understanding.”
She turned full upon him, her cheeks warming with color, and, without speech, looked at him. Her whip-hand rose quickly, half way, as if to press her breast, and half way paused irresolutely, then dropped down to her side. But her eyes, he saw, were glad and startled. There was no mistake. The startle lay in them, and also the gladness. And he, knowing as it is given some men to know, changed the bridle rein to his other hand, reined close to her, put his arm around her, drew her till the horses rocked, and, knee to knee and lips on lips, kissed his desire to hers. There was no mistake—pressure to pressure, warmth to warmth, and with an elate thrill he felt her breathe against him.