There was a pause. Connie trembled and flushed. Then she moved forward, both her little hands outstretched.
“Take me with you!” she murmured under her breath. But her eyes said more—far more.
The next moment she was in Falloden’s arms, strained against his breast—everything else lost and forgotten, as their lips met, in the just selfishness of passion.
Then he released her, stepping back from her, his strong face quivering.
“I was a mean wretch to let you do that!” he said, with energy.
She eyed him.
“Why?”
“Because I have no right to let you give yourself to me—throw yourself away on me—just because we have been doing this thing together,—because you are sorry for Otto—and”—his voice dropped—“perhaps for me.”
“Oh!” It was a cry of protest. Coming nearer she put her two hands lightly on his shoulders—.
“Do you think”—he saw her breath fluttering—“do you think I should let any one—any one—kiss me—like that! just because I was sorry for them—or for some one else?”