He took at last a desperate step. The girl was within arm’s reach of him; her delicate waist, the creamy white of her slender neck, invited him. Be she never so innocent, never so maidenly, a kiss, he told himself, would awaken her. It was his experience, it was a scrap drawn from his store of worldly wisdom, that a woman kissed was a woman won.
True, as he thought of it, his heart began to riot, as it had not rioted from that cause since he had kissed the tobacconist’s daughter at Exeter, his first essay in gallantry. But only the bold deserve the fair! And how often had he boasted that, where women were concerned, lips were made for other things than talking!
And—in a moment it was done.
Twice! Then she slipped from his grasp, and stood at bay, with flaming checks and eyes that—that had certainly not ceased to be virginal. “You! You!” she cried, barely able to articulate. “Don’t touch me!”
She had been taken utterly, wholly by surprise; and the shock was immensely increased by the facts of her bringing up and the restraints and conditions of school-life. In his grasp, with his breath on her cheek, all those notions about ravening wolves and the danger which attached to beauty in low places—notions no longer applicable, had she taken time to reason—returned upon her in force. The man had kissed her!
“How—-how dare you?” she continued, trembling with rage and indignation.
“But your father——”
“How dare you——”
“Your father sent me,” he pleaded, quite crestfallen. “He gave me leave——”
She stared at him, as at a madman. “To insult me?” she cried.