“No!” he answers, “or only a little; just pleasantly.”
His eyes—how blue their whites are!—lift themselves with a sort of yearning, that yet seems to have none of the commotion of passion in it, to hers, and she feels that she ought to kiss him. If she think about it, she will never get herself up to the sticking-point; so, without a second’s delay, with the teapot still encumbering one hand, she takes the plunge and drops a little butterfly kiss somewhere about the roots of his soft curly hair.
“Thank you, dear.” He asks for no repetition of the endearment; and she wonders shamefacedly whether it would have been better taste to omit it.
“I think I’ll leave you now. You look tired!”
“I am not tired; and you must not leave me; for I have something to say to you.”
“Say it to-morrow.”
“With your permission I will say it to-night.”
With a little show of half-playful authority, he pulls her by the hand, which she has laid upon him before the doubtful enterprise of her kiss, on to the foot of his sofa, moving and contracting himself to make room for her.
“Well, if you must, you must!” she answers, submitting, while a vertical line shows itself between her well-drawn, thin eyebrows.
“I will not keep you long! All I want to say is, that, supposing I do not get well——”