She began to talk about friendship, and lost her thread and forgot the little electric stress between us in a rather meandering analysis of her principal girl friends. But afterwards she resumed her purpose. I went to bed that night with one proposition overshadowing everything else in my mind, namely, that kissing my cousin Sybil was a difficult, but not impossible, achievement. I do not recall any shadow of a doubt whether on the whole it was worth doing. The thing had come into my existence, disturbing and interrupting its flow exactly as a fever does. Sybil had infected me with herself. The next day matters came to a crisis in the little upstairs sitting-room which had been assigned me as a study during my visit. I was working up there, or rather trying to work in spite of the outrageous capering of some very primitive elements in my brain, when she came up to me, under a transparent pretext of looking for a book. I turned round and then got up at the sight of her. I quite forget what our conversation was about, but I know she led me to believe I might kiss her. Then when I attempted to do so she averted her face. “How COULD you?” she said; “I didn't mean that!” That remained the state of our relations for two days. I developed a growing irritation with and resentment against cousin Sybil, combined with an intense desire to get that kiss for which I hungered and thirsted. Cousin Sybil went about in the happy persuasion that I was madly in love with her, and her game, so far as she was concerned, was played and won. It wasn't until I had fretted for two days that I realised that I was being used for the commonest form of excitement possible to a commonplace girl; that dozens perhaps of young men had played the part of Tantalus at cousin Sybil's lips. I walked about my room at nights, damning her and calling her by terms which on the whole she rather deserved, while Sybil went to sleep pitying “poor old Dick!” “Damn it!” I said, “I WILL be equal with you.” But I never did equalise the disadvantage, and perhaps it's as well, for I fancy that sort of revenge cuts both people too much for a rational man to seek it.... “Why are men so silly?” said cousin Sybil next morning, wriggling back with down-bent head to release herself from what should have been a compelling embrace. “Confound it!” I said with a flash of clear vision. “You STARTED this game.” “Oh!” She stood back against a hedge of roses, a little flushed and excited and interested, and ready for the delightful defensive if I should renew my attack. “Beastly hot for scuffling,” I said, white with anger. “I don't know whether I'm so keen on kissing you, Sybil, after all. I just thought you wanted me to.” I could have whipped her, and my voice stung more than my words. Our eyes met; a real hatred in hers leaping up to meet mine. “Let's play tennis,” I said, after a moment's pause. “No,” she answered shortly, “I'm going indoors.” “Very well.”