Feeling desperately frivolous after coffee, they lugged out an old-time card table and played an old-time game of cards—piquet—gambling so recklessly that Desboro lost several cents to Cairns before the evening was over, and Jacqueline felt that she had been dreadfully and rather delightfully imprudent.
Then midnight sounded from the distant stable clock, and every timepiece in the house echoed the far Westminster chimes.
Good-nights were said; Jacqueline went away with Cynthia to the latter's room; Desboro accompanied Cairns, and endured the latter's rhapsodies as long as he could, ultimately escaping.
In their sitting-room Jacqueline was standing beside the bowl of white carnations, looking down at them. When he entered she did not raise her head until he took her into his arms. Then she looked up into his eyes and lifted her face. And for the first time her warm lips responded to his kiss.
She trembled a little as he held her, and laid her cheek against his breast, both hands resting on his shoulders. After a while he was aware that her heart was beating as though she were frightened.
"Dearest," he whispered.
There was no answer.
"Dearest?"
He could feel her trembling.