“Then, what is it I lack? Where do I fail?”
“But you don't lack—you don't fail! I ask nothing more of you, Mr. Siward.”
“A man from whom a woman desires nothing is already convicted of insufficiency.... You would recognise this very quickly if I made love to you.”
“Is that the only way I am to discover your insufficiency, Mr. Siward?”
“Or my sufficiency.... Have you enough curiosity to try?”
“Oh! I thought you were to try.” Then, quickly: “But I think you have already experimented; and I did not notice your shortcomings. So there is no use in pursuing that line of investigation any farther—is there?”
And always with her the mischief lay in the trailing upward inflection; in the confused sweetness of her eyes, and their lovely uncertainty.
One slim white hand held the rose against her cheek; the other lay idly on her knee, fresh and delicate as a fallen petal; and he laid both hands over it and lifted it between them.
“Mr. Siward, I am afraid this is becoming a habit with you.” The gay mockery was not quite genuine; the curve of lips too sensitive for a voice so lightly cynical.
He smiled, bending there, considering her hand between his; and after a moment her muscles relaxed, and bare round arm and hand lay abandoned to him.