“Still I’ve got her going mighty well ... last night she said, ‘Maybe, just one before you go’.... I’ve thought of an awfully romantic way to do it....
“Poor Marion.... I wonder if I could really break her heart.... I mean I hope she’ll soon get over it when I’m gone....
“Anyhow I’ll never be afraid of Peggy Armitage again.... I’ve got the hang ... damn it ... got the hang....”
VII.
The Gods seemed to have conspired with Philip to make his last night in the South all that he could have wished. He and Marion had been rowing again in the moonlight, and now that it had really grown very late, they were sitting in a secluded arbor at the far end of the garden, which looked out over the river. The moon, which had been waxing ever since Philip’s arrival, was now full. And great trailing strands of the weeping willows shut them up alone, in a little secret lattice of moon shadows.
Her head was resting lightly against his shoulder, and they were speaking only now and then in whispers. She was very lovely, a pale lady of the moon, and he felt himself yearn strangely toward her. The note in his voice was not forced now. She seemed to feel it, and as his eager lips bent down to hers she met them firmly with her own, warm and yielding. For a long, long minute the kiss lasted. Philip’s sensations seemed to ebb and fuse together. Then suddenly the moment passed. Habit reasserted itself, and Philip thought, “Lord! The trapper trapped! Another minute and I’d have proposed!”
VIII.
It was afternoon on the broad, cool veranda. Philip had departed northward by the morning train, and a twinkling-eyed old gentleman was sipping great cooling sips of julep through a straw. He had once been a bad man among the ladies, and perhaps a casual observer might have thought he was so still. At least, the laughing girl at his side seemed not to lack for entertainment.