“Do what?”
“Think me—for a change— bad !” I shall never forget the sweetness and gaiety with which he brought out the word, nor how, on top of it, he bent forward and kissed me. It was practically the end of everything. I met his kiss and I had to make, while I folded him for a minute in my arms, the most stupendous effort not to cry. He had given exactly the account of himself that permitted least of my going behind it, and it was only with the effect of confirming my acceptance of it that, as I presently glanced about the room, I could say—
“Then you didn’t undress at all?”
He fairly glittered in the gloom. “Not at all. I sat up and read.”
“And when did you go down?”
“At midnight. When I’m bad I am bad!”
“I see, I see—it’s charming. But how could you be sure I would know it?”
“Oh, I arranged that with Flora.” His answers rang out with a readiness! “She was to get up and look out.”
“Which is what she did do.” It was I who fell into the trap!
“So she disturbed you, and, to see what she was looking at, you also looked—you saw.”
“While you,” I concurred, “caught your death in the night air!”
He literally bloomed so from this exploit that he could afford radiantly to assent. “How otherwise should I have been bad enough?” he