"Don't!" said my lady quickly, and laid a slender (though very imperious) finger upon his lips.
"Why?" Barnabas inquired, very properly kissing the finger and holding it there.
"Because I grow tired of fine phrases and empty compliments, and because, sir—"
"Have you forgotten that my name is Barnabas?" he demanded, kissing the captive finger again, whereupon it struggled—though very feebly, to be sure.
"And because, Barnabas, you would be breaking your word."
"How?"
"You must only tell me—that, when 'the sun is shining, and friends are within call,'—have you forgotten your own words so soon?"
Now, as she spoke Barnabas beheld the dimple—that most elusive dimple, that came and went and came again, beside the scarlet lure of her mouth; therefore he drew her nearer until he could look, for a moment, into the depths of her eyes. But here, seeing the glowing intensity of his gaze, becoming aware of the strong, compelling arm about her, feeling the quiver of the hand that held her own, lo! in that instant my lady, with her sly bewitchments, her coquettish airs and graces, was gone, and in her place was the maid—quick-breathing, blushing, trembling, all in a moment.
"Ah, no!" she pleaded, "Barnabas, no!" Then Barnabas sighed, and loosed his clasp—but behold! the dimple was peeping at him again. And in that moment he caught her close, and thus, for the first time, their lips met.
Oh, privileged finger-post to have witnessed that first kiss! To have seen her start away and turn; to have felt her glowing cheek pressed to thy hoary timbers; to have felt the sweet, quick tumult of her bosom! Oh, thrice happy finger-post! To have seen young Barnabas, radiant-faced, and with all heaven in his eyes! Oh, most fortunate of finger-posts to have seen and felt all this, and to have heard the rapture thrilling in his voice:
"Cleone!"
"Oh!" she whispered, "why—why did you?"
"Because I love you!"
"No other man ever dared to—"
"Heaven be praised!"
"Upon—the mouth!" she added, her face still hidden.
"Then I have set my seal upon it."
"And now,—am I—immaculate?"
"Oh—forgive me!"
"No!"
"Look at me."
"No!"
"Are you angry?"
"Yes, I—think I am, Barnabas,—oh, very!"
"Forgive me!" said Barnabas again.
"First," said my lady, throwing up her head, "am I—heartless and a—coquette?"
"No, indeed, no! Oh, Cleone, is it possible you could learn to—love me, in time?"
"I—I don't know."
"Some day, Cleone?"
"I—I didn't come to answer—idle questions, sir," says my lady, suddenly demure. "It must be nearly half-past nine—I must go. I forgot to tell you—Mr. Chichester is coming to meet me to-night—"
"To meet you? Where?" demanded Barnabas, fierce-eyed all at once.
"Here, Barnabas. But don't look so—so murderous!"
"Chichester—here!"
"At a quarter to ten, Barnabas. That is why I must go at—half-past nine—Barnabas, stop! Oh, Barnabas, you're crushing me! Not again, sir,—I forbid you—please, Barnabas!"
So Barnabas loosed her, albeit regretfully, and stood watching while she dexterously twisted, and smoothed, and patted her shining hair into some semblance of order; and while so doing, she berated him, on this wise:
"Indeed, sir, but you're horribly strong. And very hasty. And your hands are very large. And I fear you have a dreadful temper. And I know my hair is all anyhow,—isn't it?"
"It is beautiful!" sighed Barnabas.
"Mm! You told me that in Annersley Wood, sir."
"You haven't forgotten, then?"
"Oh, no," answered Cleone, shaking her head, "but I would have you more original, you see,—so many men have told me that. Ah! now you're frowning again, and it's nearly time for me to go, and I haven't had a chance to mention what I came for, which, of course, is all your fault, Barnabas. To-day, I received a letter from Ronald. He writes that he has been ill, but is better. And yet, I fear, he must be very weak still, for oh! it's such poor, shaky writing. Was he very ill when you saw him?"
