Hal was quite taken aback—almost too taken aback to speak; but a red spot burned in each cheek, and a sudden flash seemed to gleam angrily in her eyes. Her quick brain, however, took in the position instantly. If she grew indignant and melodramatic, he would merely laugh at her. Of course he knew she must be perfectly aware that men often kissed a girl who stood to them in her position, without thinking much of it. To make a fuss would be rather absurd. On the other hand, of course, he had to be disillusioned concerning what he apparently supposed would be her feelings on the subject. “I call that bad taste,” she said coolly. “You might have given me a sporting chance to let you know beforehand I should object.” He looked about to repeat the action, but she edged away from him. “Of course I know lots of girls don’t mind, but that’s nothing to do with you and me. I do.” “Why do you mind?” He felt rather small before the directness of her eyes, and tried to bluster himself on to his former level. “It’s very silly of you, especially nowadays. There’s no harm in a kiss, is there?” “None that I know of, but I think we were getting on very nicely without it. We won’t risk spoiling things. Come along, I’m longing to be off”; and she moved towards the door. “Are you angry with me?” he asked. “Yes; very; but if you’ll promise not to do it again I’ll try to forget. If you transgress further, we shall just have to leave off being friends—that’s all.” He took his seat in the motor beside her in silence, and Peter whizzed them away at a good speed. Hal, enjoying the motion, kept her face averted, and drank in the lovely, fresh country air. Presently a hand stole firmly over hers. “You’re not to be angry with me any more, little woman. I’m afraid I was rather a cad, but you’ve got such a fascinating mouth. I’m sorry.” She looked frankly into his eyes. “Well, don’t do it again, then.” He tried to look no less frankly back, but it was as if some forbidden thought flashed across his mind. “I’ll try not,” he said, a trifle lamely, and looked away. He still kept possession of her hand, however, until she resolutely drew it from him. “Will Brother Dudley be in?” he asked, when they drew up in Bloomsbury. “No; he won’t get back much before nine.” He took her latch-key from her, and opened the door, entering himself, instead of taking her proffered hand. “Which way?” he asked, and she opened the door into their sitting-room. “I’ll show you Brother Dudley’s photograph now you’re here,” she said in a frank voice—“and the very latest of Lorraine Vivian. I wish I had one of Apollo; but I’ve never asked for one, because I always make a point of pretending not to admire him.” “It’s only pretence, then?” he asked, glancing at the others as if his thoughts were elsewhere. “It can only be. One is bound to admire him at heart. Nature seldom made a fairer gentleman, and it would be mere perversity to deny it, except, as I do, for his good.”