Bob lay back. He said with a laugh, "Well, I'm not stopping you, am I?"

She hesitated a moment. The pa.s.sage between the table and the long chair was narrow. But truly he was not stopping her--so far as one might judge.

She took her skirts about her with her left hand; stepped forward; was almost past the chair before he moved.

Then he flung out a hand and caught her wrist, drawing her.

"Now!" he cried, and his voice was thick.

She gave a half-sound of dismay--of fear; tried to twist free. Bob laughed; pulled sharply on her arm. She was standing sideways to him-- against the sudden strain lost her balance and half toppled across the chair.

As Bob reflected, when afterwards feeding upon the incident, had he not been as unprepared as she for her sudden stumble, he would have made--as he put it--a better thing of it. As it was, her face falling against his, he was but able to give a half kiss when she had writhed herself free and made across the room.

But that embrace of her had warmed Bob's pa.s.sions. Springing up, he caught her as she fumbled with the latch; twisted her to him.

For a moment they struggled, he grasping her wrists and pressing towards her.

With the intention of encircling her waist he slipped his hold. But panic made her the quicker. Her outstretched arms held him at bay for a breathing s.p.a.ce; then as he broke them down she dealt him a swinging blow upon the face that staggered him back a step, his hand to his cheek.

Mrs. Chater opened the door.

"Oh, he kissed me! He kissed me!" Mary cried.

Bob said very slowly, "You--infernal--little--liar."

Mrs. Chater glowered upon Mary with cruel eyes. "It was a fortunate thing," she said coldly, "that a headache brought me home. Go to your room, miss."

We may hurry across the bridge.

CHAPTER III.

Excursions In Love.

I.

Sat.u.r.day was the day immediately following this scene.

George, on a 'bus carrying him towards Regent's Park, was in spirit at one with the gay freshness that gave this September morning a spring- like air.

A week of torrid heat, in which London crawled, groaned, and panted, had been wiped from the memory by an over-night thunderstorm that burst the pent-up dams of heaven and loosed cool floods upon the staring streets. No misty drizzle nor gusty shower it had been, but a strong, straight, continuous downpour, seemingly impelled by tremendous pressure. Dusty roofs, dusty streets, dusty windows it had scoured and scrubbed and polished; torrents had poured down the gutters--whenever temporarily the pressure seemed to relax, the ears of wakeful Londoners were sung to by the gurgle and rush of frantic streams driving before them the collected debris of many days.

Upon this morning, in the result, a tempest might have swept the town and found never a speck of dust to drive before it. The very air had been washed and sweetened; and London's workers, scurrying to and from their hives, seemed also to have benefited by some attribute of the downpour that tinted cheeks, sparkled eyes, and, rejuvenating limbs, gave to them a new sprightliness of movement.

George, from his 'bus, caught many a bright eye under a jaunty little hat; gave each back its gleam from the depths of gay lightness that filled his heart. Nearing the Park he alighted; made two purchases.

From a confectioner bun-corn for David and Angela, those ramping steeds; from a florist the reddest rose that an exhaustive search of stock could discover.

Mary had from him such a rose at their every meeting. She might not wear it back to Palace Gardens--it would not flourish beneath Mrs.

Chater's curiosity; but while they were together she would tuck it in her bosom, and George tenderly would bear it home and set it in a vase before him to lend him inspiration as he worked.

It is almost certain that such a part is one for which flowers were especially designed.

II.

Those splendid steeds, David and Angela, having been duly exercised, groomed, and turned out to browse upon bun-corn, George rushed at once upon the matter that was singing within him.

Where he sat with his Mary they were sheltered from any but chance obtrusion. She had taken off her gloves, and George gave her hands, as they lay in her lap, a little confident pat. It was the tap of the baton with which the conductor calls together his orchestra--for this was a song that George was about to tune, very confident that the chords of both instruments that should give the notes were in a harmony complete.

He said: "Mary, do you know what I am going to talk about?"

She had been a little silent that morning, he had thought; did not answer now, but smiled.

He laid a hand upon both hers. "You must say 'yes.' You've got to say 'yes' about twenty times this morning, so start now. Do you know what I'm going to talk about?"

"Yes."

"No objections this time?"

"Yes."

He laughed; gave her hand a little smack of reproof. (You who have loved will excuse these lovers' absurdities.) "No, no; you are only to say 'yes' when I tell you. No objections to the subject this morning?"

His Mary told him "No."

"Couldn't have a better morning for it, could we?"

She took a little catch at her breath.

George dropped the banter in his tone. "Nothing wrong to-day, is there, dear? Nothing up?"

How sadly wrong everything in truth was she had determined not to tell him until she more certainly knew its extent. She shook her head; rea.s.suringly smiled.

"Well, that's all right--there couldn't be on a morning like this. Now we've got to begin at the beginning. Mary, I planned it all out last night--all this conversation. We've got to begin at the beginning--Do you know I've never told you yet that I love you? You knew it, though, didn't you, from the first, the very first? Tell me from when?"

"George, this is awfully foolish, isn't it?"

"Never mind. It's jolly nice. It's necessary, too. I've read about it.

It's always done. Tell me from when you knew I loved you."

"After last Sat.u.r.day."

"Oh, Mary! Much earlier than _that_! You must have!"