He turned again to Mrs. Cadell.
"A wonderful year for chrysanthemums."
They started to discuss the Temple show.
"Say I'm forgiven?" McTaggart's voice was humble.
But Cydonia had recovered. She sat bolt upright, brown eyes discreetly lowered upon her plate.
"If you don't speak to me soon—" this in tragic tones—"I'll cut my throat with a silver knife. It will be a long business—painful too..." He checked his rising mischief, trying to probe her thought.
But the fact was Cydonia was somewhat at a loss. For the first time she tasted the consciousness of power—sweet, indeed, to the schoolgirl in her opening year of life. She wanted to be dignified and she wanted to laugh. And behind it all lay a curious joy—a touch of excitement and of wonder that hurt ... She wrapped it up in silence, mistrustful of speech.
"I want you to understand," McTaggart was watching her. The little scene had gained a sudden significance. "However I might laugh—or joke, you know, I never could think of you without respect. And if you take this part I'd hate you to feel ... that you weren't quite safe with me. D'you see what I mean." He took a deep breath and plunged in again. "I might flirt with Mrs. Bying—she's fair game, you know—but you——you're different..."
He stammered on the word.
For Cydonia had looked up and in her shy eyes he read a childish gratitude and with it, sweet and deep, the dawn of a woman's comprehension of men.