He was riotously happy, must hold her off for the joy of drawing her to him again, must pull off her gloves and kiss her soft bare palms.
“I love you, love you!” he cried, and bent down to bury his face in the warm hollow of her neck.
Sidney glowed under his caresses—was rather startled at his passion, a little ashamed.
“Tell me you love me a little bit. Say it.”
“I love you,” said Sidney, and flushed scarlet.
But even in his arms, with the warm sunlight on his radiant face, with his lips to her ear, whispering the divine absurdities of passion, in the back of her obstinate little head was the thought that, while she had given him her first embrace, he had held other women in his arms. It made her passive, prevented her complete surrender.
And after a time he resented it. “You are only letting me love you,” he complained. “I don't believe you care, after all.”
He freed her, took a step back from her.
“I am afraid I am jealous,” she said simply. “I keep thinking of—of Carlotta.”
“Will it help any if I swear that that is off absolutely?”