She sat down on the mossy sand, and picked the flowers. And he lay down at her feet, too happy to say much, and played with the red tassels of her parasol.
“Come, now, you must whistle, Georges, as a signal for the others to come,” she said archly, knowing full well that he would not.
“I can’t whistle, I never could,” he answered, and looked at her laughing.
She laughed too, and threw her violets in his face. He gathered them up, and placed them in his button-hole. Then he took her hand, and looked in her face.
“Do you like me?” he asked, his eyes fixed on hers. She laid her little white hands on his shoulders, and looking him straight in the face, slowly bent her head.
“What?” he asked, full of tenderness. “Do you like me?” he repeated, and she bent down, so that his lips touched the little locks on her forehead, and kissed them.
“Yes,” she said, and she let her head rest against his face. “Yes, I like you.”
Thus they remained for a while, whilst he, in his uncomfortable posture, enjoyed the weight of the little head on his face. But when she raised herself, and once more smilingly looked at him, he approached closer to her side, and laid her arm round his neck.
“Do you know, Emilie——” he commenced.
“What?” she asked.