The pleading in his face was exquisite. She felt as a bee might feel drowning in honey, as she wreathed her white fingers together upon the silver buckle of the brown leather belt she wore, and said confusedly:
"I ... I believe I ought to be very angry with you."
His whisper touched her ear like a kiss, and set her trembling.
"But you're not?"
"I——"
She caught her breath as he came nearer. There was a fragrance from him—a perfume of youth and health and vitality—that was powerful, heady, intoxicating as the first warm, flower-scented wind of Spring, blowing down a mountain-kloof from the high ranges. Her white-rose cheeks took sudden warmth of hue, and her pale nostrils quivered. A faint, mysterious smile dawned upon her lips. Something of the old terror was upon her still, and yet—it was delicious to be afraid of him!
"Say that you aren't angry with me for being so thunderingly presumptuous. Please be kind to me and say it."
Her lips began to utter disjointed phrases. "What can it matter really?... Oh, very well, then ... if my saying so is of such ... importance...."
"More important than anything in the world!" he declared.
"Very well, then, I am not angry—not furiously so, at least." The bud of a smile repressed pouted her lips.