She laughs complacently.
"It has not a ghostly feel, has it? Tom, do you think I have a pretty arm? One day I was picking a rose well above my head, and somebody told me I had."
"Who told you?"—sharply.
"Oh, a—well, how can I remember? Some one or other—it was long ago"—rather hurriedly. "What is your opinion? Have I a pretty arm?"
"I have not studied arms. It is a prettier arm than mine."
"You wretch! You will give diamonds and gold, but not one miserable little compliment. By the bye, I have not even thanked you for your diamonds or your good wishes."
"I do not want thanks. Spare me them."
"No, I must make some amends for my ungraciousness. I will not use many words—great gratitude, like great love, is sometimes dumb, I feel. May I thank you as graciously as I can, Tom—may I?"—raising her white arms to his neck, her parted lips to within a few inches of his half-averted face.
He tries to resist, to break the spell; he mutters to himself the words he heard her utter as an incantation, but they sound meaningless, impotent; he puts up his hand mechanically to remove her clasp, but only grasps hers to retain it more firmly there.
"May I?" she says again, her breath fanning his flushed face.