We laughed lightly. "What answer can a mortal make when Aphrodite commands?" said I.
"Then you are willing to play Adonis?"
"Quite as willing—as was that young gentleman."
"That isn't kind of you, Mr. O'Ryan. He wasn't very willing, was he?"
"Not very. But possibly he had a premonition of the tragic consequences," said I, laughing. "One doesn't frivol with a goddess with impunity."
"Are you afraid?"
She turned in the narrow seat. She was altogether too near, but I couldn't help it. And I was much disturbed to find our fingers had become very lightly intertwined.
She was smiling when I kissed her. But after I had done it her smile faded, and the gay confidence in her expression altered.
I had never expected to see in her eyes any hint of confusion, but it was there, and a sort of shamed surprise, too—odd emotions for a hardened coquette with the reputation she enjoyed.
"You proceed too rapidly," she said, the bright but subtly changed smile still stamped on her lips. "There seems to be no finesse about Americans—no leisurely technique that masters the intricacies of the ante-climax. Did you not know that hesitation is an art; that the only perfect happiness is in suspense?"