Still I hesitated.
"Come, sweetheart," she said softly.
I could resist no longer. I sprang in; the door slammed, and we were alone together.
No, not alone, either. The Spencer woman was there with us—before us—all around us. "I am Armand Dalberg's wife" was pounding in my brain.
Then I felt a soft little hand slip into mine; a perfumed hair tress touched my cheek; and the sweetest voice, to me, on earth whispered in my ear.
"Don't I get my kiss now?"
I flung my arm about her and caught her close—then loosed her sharply and drew back.
"God help me, Dehra, I may not," I said.
She laughed softly, and again she found my hand—and I felt her hair brush my face—and her body rest against my shoulder.
"Why, Armand?" she asked. "Why may you not kiss your betrothed?"