She continued to gaze into the fire.
Of a sudden she sprang to her feet with a choked cry of almost animal fury. The fool had touched her. Carried away doubtless by the memory of that afternoon by the windmill, he had, in passing once more to the kettle, crept softly behind her and put a swift burning kiss on the side of her neck.
Then he had retreated before her, stumbling against the table and causing the cups and saucers to jingle.
The basket-chair tilted up, but righted itself again.
"I told you—I told you—" she choked, her stockish figure shaking with rage, "I told you—you—"
He put up his elbow as if to ward off a blow.
"You touch me—you!—you!" the words broke from her.
He had put himself farther round the table. He stammered.
"Here—dash it all, Bessie—what is the matter?"
"You touch me!"