“Not so near the house, Philip,” she said. “Supposing someone should come out suddenly?”
He led her to the kitchen garden where no one was likely to come, and this time Miss Wilkinson did not think of earwigs. He kissed her passionately. It was one of the things that puzzled him that he did not like her at all in the morning, and only moderately in the afternoon, but at night the touch of her hand thrilled him. He said things that he would never have thought himself capable of saying; he could certainly never have said them in the broad light of day; and he listened to himself with wonder and satisfaction.
“How beautifully you make love,” she said.
That was what he thought himself.
“Oh, if I could only say all the things that burn my heart!” he murmured passionately.
It was splendid. It was the most thrilling game he had ever played; and the wonderful thing was that he felt almost all he said. It was only that he exaggerated a little. He was tremendously interested and excited in the effect he could see it had on her. It was obviously with an effort that at last she suggested going in.
“Oh, don’t go yet,” he cried.
“I must,” she muttered. “I’m frightened.”
He had a sudden intuition what was the right thing to do then.
“I can’t go in yet. I shall stay here and think. My cheeks are burning. I want the night-air. Good-night.”