This seemed to afford her infinite delight; there was malice in her grey eyes now, and a hint of pretty mockery in her laughter.
"To think," she said, "that James Cleland should ever become sentimental with poor little Stephanie Quest! What an unbending! What condescension! What a come-down! Oh, Jim, if I've really got you at last I'm going to raise the very devil with you!"
"You're doing it."
"Am I? I hope I am! I mean to torment you! Why, when I think of the long, long years of childish adoration and awe—of the days when I tagged after you, grateful to be noticed, thankful when you found time for me——" She clapped her hands together delightedly, enchanted with his glum and reddening face. For what she said was the truth; he knew it, though she did not realize how true it had been—and meant merely to exaggerate.
"Also," she said, "you leave me quite alone for three whole years when you could have come back at the end of two!"
His face darkened and he bit his lip.
"You're quite right," he said in a quiet voice. "A girl couldn't very well fall in love with that sort of man."
There was a silence. She had been enjoying her revenge, but she had not expected him to take it so seriously.
He sat there with lowered head, considering, gnawing at his under-lip in silence. She had not intended to hurt him. She was inexperienced enough with him to be worried. His features seemed older, leaner, full of unfamiliar shadows—disturbingly aloof and stern.
She hesitated—the swift, confused memory of an hour before checking her for an instant, then she leaned toward him, quite certain of what would happen—silent and curious as he drew her into his arms.