“Well, he very rudely—really quite rudely—slipped her low-necked frock a little lower down—so—and there, if you please, was the fairy mark.”
It was there. A little pink scar hitherto hidden by her dress, a tiny, straight, nowise unsightly cut across the ivory of her skin, now rose-pink in the firelight against the white silk and dainty mauve ribbons suddenly disclosed. Aryenis was very still, but unresisting as I turned her dear face round.
“And then he was nearly sure, but to be quite certain he decided to read her thoughts. And when he looked into her eyes he saw that she was wondering which—”
I stopped, and Aryenis looked up at me with eyes half-veiled under the drooping lids.
“Which?” she whispered, as I remained silent.
“Which—he would—kiss first. The fairy mark or her lips?”
And then I knew that I won my bet.
For a moment Aryenis did nothing, just lay quite still in my arms, one beautiful shoulder gleaming in the firelight, looking up at me with eyes now wholly dark and a mouth a thousand times more kissable than I had ever known it before. Then a slim arm that seemed made of live fire slipped round my neck, drawing my head down.
I suppose it was really a very long time after that before we returned to mere commonplaces of speech. An altogether new and even more completely adorable Aryenis cuddled cosily against me—an entirely surrendered Aryenis, with flushed cheeks and disgracefully and very beautifully untidy hair.
“Are you aware that you’ve lost your bet, sweetheart?” said I at last.