“June”—with an effort to be equally firm.
“If you say that again,” he returned coolly, “I shall make it March. I’d ever so much rather, too,” he wound up boyishly.
“That would be quite impossible,” replied Ann triumphantly. “I’ve promised to go and stay with the Brabazons in March.”
He took her by the shoulders and pulled her towards him.
“Let it be April, then,” he said, adding quickly, as he read dissent in her eyes: “We’ve wasted such a lot of time, beloved.”
She yielded at that.
“Very well, then—April. But I’m afraid you’re going to be a dreadfully self-willed husband, Eliot”—smiling as though the prospect were in no way distasteful.
“I think I am,” he acknowledged, with all a man’s supreme egotism. He laughed down at her, and, lifting her right off the ground into his arms, kissed her with swift passion.
“You’re much too thin,” he grumbled discontentedly, as he set her down again. “You weigh next to nothing.”
“And whose fault is that, pray?” she asked gaily.