"I never smoke—you know that, Stephen."
"Try one. I think you'd look prettier still..." he checked himself. "Sorry—it slipped out!—I forgot you always hated compliments."
"You forget I'm an old woman!" She caught at the phrase in self-defence. "Old enough to be your mother."
"You...?"—he stooped over her—"I ... sometimes ... almost wish you were!"
"Stephen!"—she drew away, startled. "You mustn't talk like that!" But she felt a curious exultation, a sudden throb of fear and pride. For oh! Youth is sweet to hold and sad to lose; and a woman clings to the delusion for long years after grey hairs appear.
"Well—I do. You're too ... sweet! Don't you know what it means to me? Have you never even guessed?" He broke off, his eyes dilated.
Mrs. Uniacke shrank back.
"Don't—you mustn't. Stephen!—you're mad!" ... For the man was on his knees by her side; her hands were caught, she could feel his lips, smooth and young, pressed upon them.
"I can't help it!—You know now. Of course you'll send me out of your life. But, this once, I've got to tell you—I love you so!"—the words were out.
And, indeed, a spark of truth lay in the declaration. This lover's scene, carefully rehearsed by him, found him amazed at the strength of his own desire. He stood upon the brink of passion. For habit plays queer tricks, and the daily intercourse of years had flowered unseen. This was the fruit.