But Ashe was in no mood for literary reminiscence. His lip was contemptuous, his brow angry as he replaced the leaf in its cleft stick, whither the flames immediately pursued it.
"Wretched stuff, and damned impertinence!—that's all there is to say. For Heaven's sake, Kitty, don't let any one suppose you mind the thing—for an instant!"
She looked at him with strange eyes. "But if I do mind it?"
His face darkened to the shade of hers. "Does that mean—that you still think of him—still wish to see him?"
"I don't know," said Kitty, slowly. The fire had died away. Nothing but a few charred remnants remained in the brazier. Ashe lit the gas, and disclosed a tragic Kitty, flushed by the audacity of her last remark. He took her masterfully in his arms.
"That was bravado," he said, kissing her. "You love me! And I may be a poor stick, but I'm worth a good many Cliffes. Defy me—and I'll write you a better poem, too!"
The color leaped afresh in Kitty's cheek. She pushed him away, and, holding him, perused his handsome, scornful face, and all the manly strength of form and attitude. Her own lids wavered.
"What a silly scene!" she said, and fell—a little, soft, yielding form—into his arms.