At the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards him.
“What, Cecil?”
“Hitherto never—not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry me—”
He became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they were observed. His courage had gone.
“Yes?”
“Up to now I have never kissed you.”
She was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most indelicately.
“No—more you have,” she stammered.
“Then I ask you—may I now?”
“Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can’t run at you, you know.”
At that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a businesslike lift to her veil. As he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them.
Such was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young man behind the