Parkson thought it a lucky chance that she had discarded her gloves. Parkson, in fact, was green enough to trust her absolutely. He was, indeed, the veriest babe in her hands. Her face was full towards him now. She was smiling, exhibiting her splendid teeth, and looking deep into his eyes. Her black hat and widow's weeds added only to the brilliancy of her complexion, to the scarlet richness of her fine lips. There was something in her gaze, in the warm intensity of her regard, its lingering softness, that utterly swept away Parkson's self-possession. He leaned toward her and dropped his voice.
"If it wasn't for the sentries there on the hill-top," he murmured, "I'd kiss you now!"
"Bad boy," she said with her lips.
She had a way of talking with her lips and uttering no sound that concentrated attention on her sensuous charms.
Parkson's five minutes in the car seemed to him five minutes of heaven. He was completely and utterly enamoured—and as to the future, the future seemed to blaze before him in radiant and glorious romance. He wondered how far he could go—he had never seen a woman like her. Beautiful, feminine, coy, loving.... What a blind idiot, thought he, Beecher Monmouth must have been to shoot himself.
"When shall we meet again?" he whispered, as he alighted from the car at the end of the fort road.
"I'm afraid I shall have to meet you again soon, you naughty boy!"
She put out her supple white hand, adorned only with a wedding ring. Parkson seized her fingers and impressed a fervent kiss upon them.
As the car swept away, Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned and waved a little handkerchief in farewell.
CHAPTER XXVII