tender, suggesting tears, her movements impulsive, as if with a self-reproach she would not acknowledge, but which she must silence with lavish tenderness. He drew her to him, and they remained quiet for some time, till it grew dark.
The noise of my mother stirring in the next room disturbed them. Lettie rose, and he also got up from the couch.
“I suppose,” he said, “I shall have to go home and get bathed and dressed—though,” he added in tones which made it clear he did not want to go, “I shall have to get back in the morning—I don’t know what they’ll say.”
“At any rate,” she said, “You could wash here——”
“But I must get out of these clothes—and I want a bath.”
“You could—you might have some of Cyril’s clothes—and the water’s hot. I know. At all events, you can stay to supper——”
“If I’m going I shall have to go soon—or they’d not like it, if I go in late;—they have no idea I’ve come;—they don’t expect me till next Monday or Tuesday——”
“Perhaps you could stay here—and they needn’t know.”
They looked at each other with wide, smiling eyes—like children on the brink of a stolen pleasure.
“Oh, but what would your mother think!—no, I’ll go.”
“She won’t mind a bit.”
“Oh, but——”
“I’ll ask her.”
