"You can only disappoint me by saying that you care for ... some other fellow ... more than for me."
"I like you better than anybody else," said Melicent simply, raising her eyes to his agitated face.
She was quite unprepared for the result.
Her hands, her waist, were caught, she was in his arms; before she was fairly conscious of what he was about, he had kissed the ineffable, smooth rose whiteness of her cheek.
"I'm content," he whispered. "You like me better than anybody else! Oh, you darling! What is it? Have I frightened you? There, I will be good, I swear I will! I'm not a brute ... only I lost my head! I never thought you would, or could, but now—"
She edged away, sick and trembling. To her virginal aloofness, the fact of his embrace clinched the matter. He had stolen a march on her. Unless he were her betrothed, how could she face him again? He would become a second incubus, like Bert Mestaer. Yet still her honesty fought for liberty.
"You did not let me speak," she cried. "I mean to say—I like you better than anybody else, but that is not enough!"
"But it is enough," he cried triumphantly. "You say yourself that you are cold—I don't care a shot for that, I want you as you are. And if you like me best, what more is there? I'm not as clever as you, but I can give you money and a title, and I did well in the campaign.... By the way, I shall be more deeply indebted than ever to old Brooke! If it hadn't been for him—!"
The mention of the name was opportune. It stiffened up the girl's resolution.
"Oh, yes; he saved your life! Tell me about it!" she said, with an idea of gaining time to collect her thoughts, which seemed to be circling in a kind of whirlpool, nearer and nearer to complete surrender.