The next morning the sun streaming into Pansy's bedroom roused her. She awoke with the feeling of having indulged in some delightful dream, which, like all dreams, must melt with the morning.
She thought of the episode with Le Breton in the garden. A gentle look lingered on her face. He was a darling, the nicest man she had ever met; the only one she had ever liked enough to let kiss her; the only one in whose arms she had been content to stay. But about marrying?
A frown came and rested on her white brow.
Marrying was quite another matter. In a month's time, impossible. A thing not to be contemplated.
Pansy sat up suddenly, hugging her knees as she gazed thoughtfully at the brilliant expanse of dancing, shimmering sea that sparkled at her through the open bedroom window.
She, engaged to be married! She who had vowed never to fall in love until forty!
It was love Pansy had wanted in the moonlit garden with Le Breton's arms about her. But it was liberty she wanted now, as she sat hugging her knees, amazed at herself and her own behaviour.
She had bartered her liberty for a man's arms and a few kisses!
Pansy could hardly believe herself capable of such folly.
She had been swept off her feet—over her depth before she knew it.