He tried to hold her off at arm's-length, but she only clung to him the more, giving him a rapturous kiss of greeting.
The story of little Jessie Bain had been the only one which Hubert Varrick had kept from his mother.
It seemed amusing, he had told himself repeatedly, for a young man of five-and-twenty to be guardian, as it were, to a young girl of sixteen—that sweet, subtle, dangerous age "where childhood and womanhood meet."
"Aren't you glad to see me, Mr. Varrick?" cried Jessie.
"Glad?" Hubert Varrick's face lighted up, and before he was aware of the action, he had drawn her into his encircling arms, bent his dark, handsome head, and kissed the rosy mouth so dangerously near his own. There was a sound as of a groan, from the door-way, followed by a muffled shriek, and raising his eyes in startled horror, Hubert Varrick saw his lady-mother standing on the threshold, her jeweled hands parting the satin portières.
"Who is this girl, and what does this amazing scene mean, Hubert?" cried Mrs. Varrick.
Jessie Bain looked at the angry lady in puzzled wonder. She nestled up closer to the handsome, broad-shouldered fellow, murmuring audibly:
"Why don't you tell her that I am Jessie Bain, and that you are my best friend on earth?"
The lady had heard enough to condemn the girl in her eyes.
She advanced toward her, livid with rage, and flung the girl's little white hands back from her son's arm.