"Let us try it, anyhow," I insisted.
She bent her head, riding in silence for a while.
"Sweetheart," I said, "are you hungry?"
"Oh!" she cried, crimson-cheeked, "have you begun already? And am I—am I to say that, too?"
"Not unless you—you want to."
"I dare not, Carus."
"It is not hard," I said; "it slipped from my lips, following my thoughts. Truly, Elsin, I love you dearly—see how easily I say it! I love you in one kind of way already. One of these days, before we know what we're doing, we'll be married, and Sir Peter will be the happiest man in New York."
"Sir Peter! Sir Peter!" she repeated impatiently; a frown gathered on her brow. She swung toward me, leaning from her saddle, face outstretched.
"Carus," she said, "kiss me! Now do it again, on the lips. Now again! There! Now that you do it of your own accord you are advanced so far. Oh, this is dreadful, dreadful! We have but a week, and we are that backward in love that I must command you to kiss me! Where shall we be this day week—how far advanced, if you think only of courting me to please Sir Peter?"
"Elsin," I said, after a moment's deliberation, "I'm ready to kiss you again."