Her hair
isn't dyed; but why does she wear that skimpy bang?" Again she laughed,
a pure golden melody. "But you admired it, I know you did; men are so
unaccountable. Could you trust her, do you think? It wasn't very nice
to make fun of her husband." Adroitly, without the flutter of a ruffle,
she moved to a higher step, and Claire--before Lee had any premonition
of her appearance--stood below them with chocolates.
"She is rather attractive," his companion admitted, when Claire had
gone. "She doesn't like me, or Mrs. Wager, though; and I must say she
made it plain in her own house. I've been studying her, and there is
something wrong. Is she happy with Peyton Morris? I thought he was
right nice until you came." She turned for a better view, through the
balustrade, of the doors beyond, and then drew her skirt close so that
he could move up beside her. "It's just like a smoke-house in there,"
she reported. "I don't truthfully think cigarettes are nice for a
woman; and I wouldn't dream of taking whiskey; in the South we never.
You'd call that out of date." She bent forward, arranging the ribbon of
a slipper, and her mouth met his in a long kiss.
"What made you suppose you could do that?" she demanded; "how did you
know I wouldn't be cross with you? But ... somehow I didn't mind.
Although you mustn't again, so publicly. I wonder why, with you, it
seemed so perfectly nice, and not at all as if I had only met you?"
There was a response to that as recognized, as exact, as the bishop's
move in chess; indeed, it was expected of him; she was hesitating,
waiting for it; but he was unable to reassure her with the conventional
sentiment.
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