“Is it still heavenly?” he asked. (How pointed her fingers were and how soft and crushable her hand looked as it splashed like a child’s.) “More heavenly every minute,” she answered. He laughed outright. “The heavenly thing is the way you are enjoying it yourself. I never saw a girl light up a whole room before. You throw out stars as you dance.” “That’s like a skyrocket,” Robin laughed back. “And it’s because in all my life I never went to a dance before.” “Never! You mean except to children’s parties?” “There were no children’s parties. This is the first—first—first.” “Well, I don’t see how that happened, but I am glad it did because it’s been a great thing for me to see you at your first—first—first.” He sat down on the fountain’s edge near her. “I shall not forget it,” he said. “I shall remember it as long as I live,” said Robin and she lifted her unsafe eyes again and smiled into his which made them still more unsafe. Perhaps it was because he was extremely young, perhaps it was because he was immoral, perhaps because he had never held a tight rein on his fleeting emotions, even the next moment he felt that it was because he was an idiot—but suddenly he found he had let himself go and was kissing the warm velvet of the slim little nape—had kissed it twice. He had not given himself time to think what would happen as a result, but what did happen was humiliating and ridiculous. One furious splash of the curled hand flung water into his face and eyes and mouth while Robin tore herself free from him and stood blazing with fury and woe—for it was not only fury he saw. “You—You—!” she cried and actually would have swooped to the fountain again if he had not caught her arm. He was furious himself—at himself and at her. “You—little fool!” he gasped. “What did you do that for even if I _was_ a jackass? There was nothing in it. You’re so pretty——” “You’ve spoiled everything!” she flamed, “everything—everything!” “I’ve spoiled nothing. I’ve only been a fool—and it’s your own fault for being so pretty.” “You’ve spoiled everything in the world! Now—” with a desolate horrible little sob, “now I can only go back—_back!_” He had a queer idea that she spoke as if she were Cinderella and he had made the clock strike twelve. Her voice had such absolute grief in it that he involuntarily drew near her. “I say,” he was really breathless, “don’t speak like that. I beg pardon. I’ll grovel! Don’t—Oh! Kathryn—_come_ here.” This last because at this difficult moment from between the banks of hot-house bloom and round the big palms his sister Kathryn suddenly appeared. She immediately stopped short and stared at them both—looking from one to the other. “What is the matter?” she asked in a low voice. “Oh! _come_ and talk to her,” George broke forth. “I feel as if she might scream in a minute and call everybody in. I’ve been a lunatic and she has apparently never been kissed before. Tell her—tell her you’ve been kissed yourself.”