“Spare me the revelation of my ignorance,” Millicent returned, moving her chair an inch or two from the now importunate fire, and looking over her shoulder. “It is possible.”
“The only requisites are a woman, a secret, and as many spectators as have not the use of their eyes,” I continued; “those granted, you may riot in innuendo, and your reputation go scatheless. It is the very button on the cap.”
Bassishaw could think of nothing more original to say than that it was playing with edged tools. Carrie was directing the removal of plates; I devoted my attention to Millicent.
“I had one very serious fancy, though, Millicent,” I remarked. “Shall I tell you?”
“I trust it is not unfit for the children,” she replied, looking this time beneath the flowers at Bassishaw. “The knowledge of good and evil from your point of view might not be of advantage to them.”
Caroline looked round curiously.
“Oh, Rollo, what was that?” she said. “You never told me.”
“No?” I inquired incredulously. “And you my sister, too! Ah, well, it was this. Summer mornings, at seven, I used to go across the fields with a bathing-towel; on my return I was generally met by—I never mentioned her name.”
“It would be indiscreet,” said Millicent.
“Discretion,” I answered, “is the better part of flirtation. They were lovely mornings, and there was a stile—a rather high stile—a distinct opportunity.”