“It always is Lord Gunner’s fault. Mr. Germain asked me to tell you that he was ready.”
“Good Lord!” cried the unhappy youth. “And I’m sw—as hot as anything.”
“Go and change,” she said kindly. “I’ll go back to him.”
He was fervent. “You are an angel! But I’ve told you that before.” Their eyes met; they laughed together. He pelted upstairs.
“Mr. Wilbraham will be with you in a second,” she said, entering the library again. Had she seen him spring round as she came in? No doubt of it. “I left my book down by the lake—and I know you don’t like that. Do you?”
“No, dearest, no. I confess the foible.” His eyes invited her nearer. She advanced to his table and stood by him, her hand touched his shoulder. He was inordinately happy, though he made no immediate sign. But presently his arm went about her waist, and then she bent down and leaned her cheek for his kiss. They remained together, saying nothing, until she heard Wilbraham coming down, three stairs at a time. Then she slipped away and just caught him outside the door.
“I had to tell a fib,” she told him. “I said that I had left my book by the lake.”
“Well!” He looked at her. “I’ll bet that’s not a fib.”
“No,” she laughed. “But it was meant to be. Now I’m going to get it myself.”
“You are an angel!” he said. “Don’t. I’ll go presently. I should love to.”