“You are ill,” he said, “I am going to prescribe for you.”
“What?” She made a wry face. “What?”
“This,” he gathered her into his arms and kissed her swiftly—and then again—more than once.
At last she pushed him away. “It took some doing,” she told herself in the glass that night. But to him she said gravely, “To be taken only three times a day—after meals.”
“No fear!” Her physician cried, “To be taken again and again!” And it was.
The chatterbox was silent and shy. But Horace Latham had a great deal to tell her. He had only begun to say it, haltingly at first, then swifter and swifter, man dominating and wooing his woman, when Angela cried imploringly, “Hush!”
He thought that she heard some one coming. But it was not that. Angela Hilary was planning her wedding-dress. He hushed at her cry, and sat studying her face. Presently she fell to knotting and unknotting his long fingers.
“Silk has most distinction,” she said to the fire, “and satin has its points. Oh, yes, satin has points, but I think velvet, yes—velvet and white fox.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded her lover.
Angela giggled.