Although he had both telegraphed and written to ask for some statement
concerning Caroline Graniger from his mother, Rupert Haverford, of
course, never expected to receive a prompt answer; indeed, he was quite
prepared to have no answer at all.
He left orders that all his letters were to be forwarded to him whilst
he was in the north, and Caroline's little epistle travelled thither
with the rest of his enormous correspondence.
It would have been very difficult for Haverford to have described why
he objected to the arrangement that had been entered into between Mrs.
Lancing and Caroline Graniger. The girl's own argument to herself in
favour of what she had done was a very sound one. Indeed, under the
circumstances, most people would have regarded the matter as being both
lucky and satisfactory.
But Rupert shared Mrs. Brenton's view about things done in haste; that
for the first point; the second was that, as he had put himself out in
a certain measure to make arrangements for Miss Graniger, he considered
that he should have been consulted before she had made any definite
plans.
To find, therefore, that she had already assumed an independent
attitude, and had taken herself and her immediate future out of his
hands, annoyed him.
There are very few men who really appreciate the spirit of independence
in women, and Rupert Haverford was very much behind the times in his
views concerning the way in which women were swarming into the world as
bread-winners and wage-earners.
He made no haste to reply to Caroline's letter. As usual, he found much
to occupy him when he arrived at that dirty, smoky, northern town.
He confessed to himself that he was glad to be away from London again
even for a little while; glad to dissociate his thoughts from that
element of his life that belonged to the world in which Camilla Lancing
lived. Not that he expected to be able to put her out of his thoughts
altogether, for even in the dull, prosaic, unlovely surroundings of the
factory, remembrance of this woman haunted him in so tangible a way
that at times he could almost have imagined she was close beside him.
And on this occasion he carried with him new matter for thought where
Camilla was concerned.
A new element had crept into his heart.
If he shut his eyes he could see with painful distinctness Camilla
floating round that large room held in the arms of another man.
He knew perfectly well that this other man was no more to her than the
floor on which she danced, but that did not affect the situation as far
as he was concerned.
He winced and turned hot as he sat alone in the railway carriage
whirling away from town, just as he had winced and grown hot the other
night, when, like some graceful white leaf borne on a wayward wind, she
had lightly skimmed past him, brushing him with her soft, clinging
skirts.
Her laughing, petulant reproach when he had refused to dance because he
could not dance had left a little wound.
She had made him feel clumsy; suddenly she had seemed to recede from
him.
It was the first time that he had ever felt awkward, and at the mere
suggestion that he could look foolish in the eyes of this woman Rupert
Haverford discovered that he was very like other men, some of whom
perhaps he had judged hardly, and some contemptuously.
He had no definite intention in his mind as to how he should act.
Indeed, it seemed to him that the future was not held in restraint by
his hand or his power, and he laughed once to himself a little
bitterly, as he recalled how he had gone round and round this subject
of late, thinking entirely of his own feelings, and of how far the
bewitchment that this woman had cast upon him was to be permitted to
order his life.
In the lightest way possible Camilla had shown him that he made too
much of his own importance.
It was not exactly his fault that he had grown critical and reserved
where women were concerned.
If he had met Camilla when he had been a man struggling every hour to
work himself into independence, he would never have questioned her
right, never have sought to analyze what went to form her brilliant
personality. He would have given her unquestioning devotion, seeing in
her that spirit of grace and delicacy and beauty which had always been
placed in his dreams: a gift at once necessary and unattainable.
But the burden of his great wealth had changed in a certain measure
Rupert's nature; it had made him cautious, it had made him doubtful,
and he was so imbued with that weighty sense of responsibility that he
never took a step in any direction without great deliberation, and
forecasting as far as he could the probable results that would accrue
from any act.
Mrs. Lancing was not the only woman who fluttered in and out of his
life in these days, who charmed him momentarily and pressed upon him
eagerly sympathy and friendship and delicately insinuated homage.
He would have been blind indeed if he had not realized that his
marriage was a matter of importance and hope to many women; that any
choice indeed was possible to him.
He was a little impatient with himself at times that it should be this
one particular woman who held him; even now, when she had left him
smarting and uncomfortable, he was falling back into that old train of
anxious thought about her.
Of course, he knew her history as the world knew it. Most people were
kind about Camilla. There had been nothing subtle in the way in which
her husband had wronged her.
It was the knowledge of this wrong done to her that drew Haverford to
her so surely. He longed to give her protection, to build up barriers
between her and all those things that had been legacies of her married
life.
And, of course, there was only one way in which he could do this.
All at once he realized that he had ceased to doubt or speculate as to
the future of such a marriage; hope became deliberate intention. And
still the path was not clear. He knew his own heart, but what about
Camilla's heart?
Metaphorically, he stretched out his hands to catch that dancing,
laughing, white-robed figure, only to feel that the soft, filmy
draperies slipped from his grasp, and that Camilla was dancing away
far, far out of his reach.
When he alighted at the familiar station he almost yielded to the
temptation to put himself in the train again and go back to London.
As the doubt and uncertainty dropped out of his heart, something new
came in their place.
Now he was jealous. He wanted to be sure of her. He wanted to hold her
in his arms as that other man had held her. He wanted to lock her to
him, to feel that she belonged to him.
"I shall go back to-morrow," he settled.
But he did not go south on the morrow. He found himself plunged into a
mass of business, confronted with difficulties, some of which were as
unexpected as they were bitter.
During the past year Haverford had been making enormous improvements in
his northern property. He had introduced a quantity of new plant, the
old factories were in process of being replaced by new buildings that,
when finished, would cost a small fortune. Old Matthew Woolgar would
not have known the place could he have seen it now.
In his determination to give this world of workers every possible
chance, Rupert Haverford had left nothing undone that could militate to
the benefit of their lives, both at work and in their homes.
And yet such is the trend of human nature that, notwithstanding all
that he had done and was doing, he met with no gratitude. On the
contrary, he was most unpopular. It was a fact known to every one but
himself that these people, who occupied the first thought in his mind,
had long since begun to regard him with suspicion and jealousy; some
added contempt, and some--a great number--grudging hate.
He had been summoned urgently on this occasion because it appeared that
there had been a good deal of friction in the works, and of late
certain cases of incendiarism had occurred, culminating in a dastardly
attempt to burn down the fine building which he had built and dedicated
to the use of the factory hands as a place of mental and bodily
education and refreshment.
It went very hard with Haverford to be forced to realize that this
destruction of his property, this spirit of unrest and rebellion, found
its rise in sullen animosity to himself.
At first, indeed, when he was told that there was a strong wave of bad
feeling against himself he refused to believe it. The injustice of the
ignorant is always hard to recognize and to accept.
He had never wanted gratitude; he had only wanted comradeship. He had
wanted to share his good fortune, not to buy a kingdom.
He had been loyal to this old place, to these people, and his father
before him had been loyal, even unto death.
"They have bad memories," he said to one of his managers. "My father
gave his life working among these people; for his sake they might have
met me fairly."
The other man shrugged his shoulders.
"You have done too much, sir," he said. "These sort of folk want the
whip, not benevolence."
And Haverford said no more.
To speak further of his great hopes now lost, his numerous schemes, his
almost passionate intentions for helping the people among whom he had
worked and lived so long was to touch on a dead and sacred subject.
Yet he lingered in the north. He wanted to satisfy himself that he had
made a mistake. He wanted to grow accustomed to his disappointment, to
the humiliation of feeling that these people made a mockery of him and
his generous intentions. Once he had grasped this in its fulness, and
the matter would be closed. Henceforward they should have from him
duty, nothing more.
He knew perfectly well that the men who served him and who held posts
of importance had long since regarded him as a crank. Well, there
should be no more quixotic weakness, no more sentiment. He had bared
his heart to these people, stretched out his hand and called them his
brethren, and his reward had been a stone at his heart and an evil
word, coupled with a curse.
He did not go south till the lads who had been instrumental in trying
to burn down his property had been caught and taken before the
magistrate.
"If I am wanted, send for me," he said to his head-manager the day he
left, "and report as usual."
He had telegraphed for his motor. He felt in need of a little spell of
relief, of fresh influences, of something to divert his thoughts.
"I will go abroad for Christmas," he said to himself.
He dawdled on his way, putting up at various uninteresting places,
where the chauffeur found the hours pass pretty slowly. But as he drew
nearer to London he became nervous.
It seemed to him that he could not get on enough speed to satisfy a
certain restless excitement that urged him southward.
When he finally reached town he found news of his mother. Mrs.
Baynhurst had not written herself, but there was a letter from his
half-brother.
Cuthbert Baynhurst announced that he had brought their mother home,
and added that if Rupert had any business he wished to discuss it
would be desirable if that business should be held over for a little
while.
"I made her see a specialist in Paris, and he reported very
indifferently about her. Of course she had no business to rush across
the other day. If she will do these sort of stupid things, she is bound
to suffer for it. She is a good bit annoyed about Miss Graniger, so I
think if you don't mind it would be as well not to worry her more than
you can help."
To this letter Rupert made no direct reply, but he scribbled a few
words to his mother, saying that he would call on her the following day
if she cared to see him.
"That will give her the opportunity of shirking me if she does not want
me," he said to himself, with a faint smile.
He was obliged to give an hour or two to his secretary, and to make
appointments that would occupy him nearly the whole of the next day.
But he purposely kept the afternoon free; he wanted to see Camilla.
His cab had just pulled up at Mrs. Lancing's door when it was opened,
and the two children passed out, with Caroline Graniger in attendance.
No sooner did they see Rupert Haverford than Betty and Baby ran to him
and flung themselves upon him. They made quite a commotion in the
streets.
Miss Graniger stood in the background, smiling faintly, yet conscious
of a little awkwardness.
Mr. Haverford was so occupied with the children that he could not for
the moment address a single word to her.
When his right hand was free, however, he lifted his hat and gave her a
smile; then he stretched out his hand, and Caroline put hers into it.
"Do you wish to see Mrs. Lancing?" she asked. "She is at home, but not
very well."
"But she will see you," Betty chimed in. "Do go and see her. Poor
mummy! she is _so_ white, and her eyes look red, just like mine do when
I have been crying."
"Perhaps I had better not go in," Mr. Haverford said.
But the children were urging him towards the door. Betty gave him all
sorts of injunctions.
"Don't make too much noise," she said. "You mustn't jump about, or
scream on the stairs. Baby _always_ screams when mummy's got a bad
head."
Caroline had to come to the rescue here; behind a good firm barrier
Baby felt that she might hurl recrimination on her sister with
impunity. It took some time to pacify her.
"I really don't think I ought to go in," Haverford repeated earnestly.
But Caroline had unlocked the door with a latchkey.
"I think Mrs. Lancing would like to see you," she said. She spoke
stiffly; she did not feel quite at her ease with him. "Shall I go up
and tell her you are here?"
"Yes; go," said Betty. "Mr. Haverford will take care of us; he's a very
us-a-ful man. We'll play that he's a new nurse. Come on, Babsy!"
As she passed up the stairs Caroline said to herself--
"He did not say anything disagreeable, and he did not look very cross.
I am rather glad."
Mrs. Lancing was sitting in front of the fire leaning back in a chair;
a book lay open upon her knees. It was the day following the midnight
raid on the nursery.
She looked very ill, and was very languid, and utterly unlike herself.
Dennis and Caroline had combined to keep Mrs. Lancing in bed all the
morning, and if Dennis could have had her way she would have called a
doctor; but Camilla prohibited this.
She looked round now with a start as the door opened and Caroline
reappeared.
"I hear the children speaking to some one," she said, in a nervous sort
of way. "Who is it? Why have you left them? After all, I don't think I
will let them go out, Caroline."
"Mr. Haverford is downstairs. I told him you were not well. I think he
would like to see you."
Mrs. Lancing leaned forward suddenly. The book slipped from her knees
and fell to the floor. She had turned suddenly very hot, and her face
was scarlet for the moment.
"No," she said in a jerky sort of way, and then, just as quickly, she
changed her mind. "Yes ... yes, I _will_ see him! He may cheer me up. I
feel half dead this afternoon. I am sure I must look an object, don't
I?" She stood up for an instant and peered at herself in the glass over
the fireplace.
"That depends what an object is like," said Miss Graniger, with a
little laugh; "you are looking very pale, but extremely interesting,
and that gown is lovely."
Camilla tried to laugh.
"That is all right," she said; "are you going now? Well, don't forget
what I told you, keep both the children by the hand. I--I am so nervous
about them to-day."
Caroline promised to bring the children back with all safety, and then
she turned to go. But Mrs. Lancing called her again.
"Oh! I very nearly forgot. Will you take this letter to the post for
me? I want it sent by express messenger. Sir Samuel is leaving town
to-night, and I should like him to get it before he goes. I had a
letter from him this morning," said Camilla, she laughed faintly; "it
was very kind of him; he saw that I was upset last night when I lost so
much money at bridge, and he wrote to ask if he could be of any
assistance. This is to say, 'No, thank you,' in as pretty a fashion as
possible. So, you see, I want him to get it; if you don't know where
the post-office is, Betty will take you there. Where are the children
now, by the way?"
"Mr. Haverford is taking care of them," said Caroline.
She was conscious that Camilla was speaking very flurriedly. Indeed, it
seemed to her that Mrs. Lancing had confided the contents of her letter
to Sir Samuel Broxbourne almost unconsciously, as though she were glad
to speak for the mere sake of speaking.
Dennis had been greatly upset that morning by something her mistress
had told her, but she had not shared her trouble with Caroline as yet.
Indeed, up to the present the girl was absolutely ignorant (although
she and Camilla had been drawn so closely together in the night hours)
of the nature of the trouble that had evidently fallen so unexpectedly.
She found the children back on the doorstep; they parted with Rupert
Haverford with reluctance.
"Say you'll be stayed till we come in," pleaded Betty.
Baby kept them waiting while she solemnly unfolded a piece of crumpled
paper; from this she extracted a crushed-looking object that once had
been a chocolate drop, and before Caroline could intervene she had
pressed this upon Haverford. He accepted the gift with gratitude, and
carried it upstairs to show it with pride to Baby's mother.
"Let me tell you," said Camilla, as she gave him her hand without
rising, "that that is a sign that you are in very great favour. I
thought I was the only person with whom Babsy shared the things she was
eating. She is so fond of eating, dear little soul. Just like me. Pull
up that chair and be sociable. Do you know that it is years since I saw
you? Where _have_ you been? I begin to think there is something
mysterious about these journeys to the north."
It was an attempt at her usual pretty, light-hearted manner, but only
an attempt.
Haverford did not pull up the chair; he stood by the fire and looked
down at her. Strangely enough he felt quite at his ease with her to-day.
He had drawn off the glove that had the chocolate drop sticking to it,
and Camilla noticed, not for the first time, what a fine hand he had.
Though it was brown, and had been trained to such hard work, there was
a charm about it. A hand can be so significant. With a sudden shiver
she remembered the flat, coarse, cruel finger-tips of Samuel Broxbourne.
There was something inviting, something pleasant about the look of
Rupert Haverford's hand.
"Do sit down," she said suddenly; and there was a little nervous tone
in her voice.
Instead of obeying her he put a question to her.
"What have you been doing with yourself?" he asked.
She pretended to misunderstand him.
"I told Caroline I was sure I was not fit to be seen to-day;" then she
shrugged her shoulders. "Late hours, my dear friend. The result of all
the silly, stupid things that I know you want to denounce from the
housetop. I came home very late last night," she said, after a little
pause. "I played cards, and I lost a lot!... And then I found some
tiresome letters waiting for me, and so"--she shrugged her shoulders a
second time--"I had a bad night, and to-day, of course, I look a wreck."
"I think you ought to see a doctor," said Rupert Haverford.
Camilla moved impatiently in her chair.
"How unoriginal a man is! You are all alike," she said. "You imagine
that as soon as a doctor has scribbled something on a paper, and the
chemist has sent in a neat little white packet, and an equally neat
little bill, then everything must be all right! Shakespeare was a man,
but he knew things better than most of you do. He knew, for instance,
that all the doctors in the world cannot do any good when the mind is
ill."
There was a pause, in which Camilla made a strange discovery. She found
she could hear her own heart beat quite plainly.
Was it chance or Providence that had sent this man to her now?
"The other day," said Rupert Haverford, in his quiet, seemingly
unemotional way, "you came to me to ask me to help a friend of yours.
You know my only reason for existence just now is that I may be of some
service to other people. I cannot help feeling that perhaps I might be
of some use to you. If you won't try a doctor, suppose you try me?"
"Suppose we talk about something else," said Camilla. "I know I have
something to say to you--what is it?" She wrinkled her brows and closed
her eyes, and he looked at her almost hungrily.
Lying back with her eyes closed, it seemed to him that her face had
grown more delicate, that her general aspect was more fragile.
The very suggestion that she should be really in trouble, that care
should be fretting her, was torture to him.
"Ah, I know what it was," she said, opening her eyes and bending
forward. "I have a bone to pick with you. I hear that you are not
pleased because Miss Graniger accepted the situation I offered her. I
call that horrid of you."
"I suppose I have no right to feel anything about the matter one way or
another," Rupert answered; "but, in reality, I did feel a little
annoyed. I was not sure that it would be a good arrangement for either
of you. You see, I know practically nothing about this girl."
"And you know too much about me," finished Camilla, with a little
laugh. "Well, as it happens, it is the happiest thing for both of us.
You can see for yourself that the children have turned to Caroline just
as little ducklings turn to water; and as for myself, except for Agnes
Brenton, I think this girl is the nearest approach to what I call a
_real_ woman I have ever met; so I hope," with a flash of her old
manner, "you are not going to interfere, exert your rights as a
guardian or a parochial officer, or whatever you are, and take Caroline
away."
He only smiled. The question of Caroline Graniger was of no interest to
him.
As he remained silent Camilla felt that heart-beat sound again with
heavy thuds in her ears.
"Do sit down," she said to him, almost weakly; "you--you look so big,
so commanding as you stand there. I assure you I am not well enough to
be awed to-day. I think I must have some tea. If I have a cup of tea I
shall be stronger."
When the bell had been rung, and answered, she really had taken a grip
of herself.
"It is very nice of you to come and see me," she said. "When did you
get back?"
"I arrived just before lunch," he said; "I came down in the motor."
"Wasn't it very cold?"
He nodded his head.
"Yes; the country is rather bleak just now." Then he smiled. "Now I
will sit down," he said, "since my size is so alarming!"
Camilla's delicate fingers were picking at the lace on her sleeve a
little nervously.
"So you have only been back an hour or two, and you came to see me at
once. Now that was very sweet of you, Mr. Haverford. Some instinct must
have told you that I was dull and lonely, and dying for a pleasant
companion."
Haverford's brown face coloured a little.
"The truth is, Mrs. Lancing," he said, "I felt in need of sympathy, so
I came to you."
"Sympathy! Has something happened? Oh! do let me know!"
She spoke for the first time naturally.
He sat forward and looked into the fire for a moment, and then quietly
and in a very few words he gave her the story of what had happened, or,
rather, the story of what he had discovered up north, and Camilla
listened eagerly; her own trouble, bitter and pressing and painful as
it was, faded from her as she listened.
"I don't suppose anybody in the wide world knows what this means to
me," Haverford said slowly, when he had spoken of his disappointment,
of the breakdown of his hopes. "I was so fond of those people. I
counted so surely on their faith in me, in their real affection. Money
is a very destructive thing, Mrs. Lancing! I will stake my existence
that there is not a man or a woman who had not a good thought for me in
the old days. And now there is not one who would not enjoy flinging a
brick at me."
Camilla did not speak for a moment.
"I think I understand," softly; then she said, "But I don't believe I
can give you sympathy, Mr. Haverford. I am sure this has gone too
deeply for any words of mine to help you."
She stretched out her hand, however, as she spoke, and Rupert took it,
laying it on one broad palm and closing his other tenderly over it. He
felt the nervous thrill that ran through her. Her face was scarlet as
she took her hand away with a jerk.
"Here comes tea," she said. "You are going to wait upon me, please, Mr.
Haverford. I don't feel quite equal to lifting the teapot."
When he had done this gravely, taking any amount of care, and they were
alone, without any further interruption, he stood once more by the
fireplace, and looked at her.
"Now I have told you my trouble, won't you tell me yours?"
She winced and caught her breath, and then with a sudden irresponsible
movement she put her hands to her face, and he saw that she was crying.
His own hands moved convulsively, but almost immediately Camilla had
mastered her weakness.
"Don't ... think me quite a fool," she said, "and don't, _please_
don't, run away with the idea that I want to cry. I must be very strong
now.... I never want to cry ... tears are useless at all times, but
they are worse than useless now. I believe," she said, as she dried her
eyes hurriedly, "that it won't surprise you in the least to be told
that I have always been more or less in difficulty. Of course it is
money--hateful, horrible, _horrible_ money."
She got up and moved away from him, still drying her eyes.
"I dare say lots of people have told you all there is to know about me,
and so you may have heard that the only money I have in the world to
live upon has come to me from my husband's people. Well! then you will
understand a little bit why I am so upset to-day when I tell you that
Colonel Lancing, that is, the children's grandfather, is so angry with
me that he has stopped my money, and ... and ..." she broke off here,
and put her hands against her trembling lips. "He thinks to force my
hand, you see," she said, hoarsely; "he knows I have nothing, that
there is no one to give me anything but himself, he knows that if I am
content to starve myself I cannot let the children starve, and that is
why he says the children are to belong to him. Oh!" she turned again,
flinging out her hands with a little gesture of despair, "I am not
going to try and defend myself. I know better than anybody can tell me
how foolish I have been. What a multitude of wrong things I have done.
I have been preparing myself for some sort of punishment--people who do
wrong always do get punished, don't they? But I never, never thought of
this. Of course he cannot take them from me by law. I am their mother,
they are mine ... _mine_.... But if he cuts off the money, that gives
him law!"
She sat down on a couch the other side of the room and dabbed her eyes
with her wet handkerchief, and Rupert Haverford looked across at her
with eyes that were wet too.
The silence that was so natural to him, and so irritating to Camilla,
became oppressive now. She got up with a jerk.
"You _would_ make me tell you what the matter was with me, and now I
have bored you," she said. "Other people's troubles _are_ bores, say
what one will!"
And then he found his voice.
"Oh! don't let us play with realities," he said. "I could not speak at
first because, well! because I am not good at words. You must have
realized that by this time; and you must have realized something else,
Camilla, and that is that everything that concerns you is dear to me,
so dear that I tremble at the thought that I am still outside your
life." He left the fire and went nearer to her. "I came here to-day,"
he said, "because I found that I could not go through another
twenty-four hours without seeing you. You mean so much to me. I had no
idea whether you would care for me to come; indeed, the last time I saw
you I tormented myself by imagining that you found me tedious, and
dull, that you wanted to have no more to do with me. Still I had to
come."
Camilla gave a sharp sigh and turned round, her face was blurred with
tears, she hardly looked young or pretty.
"I know what you are going to say," she said, "I know what you are
going to ask me, but I am afraid to listen."
"Afraid?" he said, and his brows met; "afraid of what?"
"Oh, you don't know me," said Camilla, with a broken sound in her
voice; "you think me pretty, you like me. Perhaps I fascinate you, but
you don't know me. I ... I am not going to refuse to be your wife," she
said, she spoke with her teeth half closed; "but I don't want any false
pretences, I don't want you to imagine things about me that do not
exist. I am full of faults, I am not a bit good. You don't know," she
opened her eyes for a minute, and looked at him, "you don't know how
un-good I am, and you ... you are so good. You will want to make me
like yourself."
"God forbid," said Rupert Haverford.
He was so near to her now that he almost touched her. She was trembling
with excitement.
"Oh! I don't mean that you would do it unkindly, only that you look at
things differently. I am so afraid you will be disappointed in me, but
..." the tears were running down her cheeks, "I know one thing about
you. I know that you are true, and that if you give your word it will
be your bond." Her lips quivered. "The children," she said brokenly;
and then she was lying with her face pressed down on his breast, and
his arms were folded about her.
What he said she hardly heard, she was only conscious in that moment of
a great, a wonderful relief. It was as though some gnawing pain that
had fretted into her very soul had been lulled; that a beautiful rest
had followed on the pain.
She closed her eyes, and she nestled nearer to him. Then, little by
little, she came back to the reality, and her heart leapt in her
throat, she tried to free herself, but those strong arms held her
tightly. Some one was kissing her brow, and close beside her she could
feel the quick beating of a strong heart.
Once she had said to herself, "He will love me too much."
And now she had accepted this love; she had bartered her freedom for
it....
The thought of the bondage burned her, yet it had come about so
naturally.
"I did not seek him," she said to herself; "he came, he would have come
a little later, but he came now ... just when I needed some one ...
something...."
How his heart beat!... How strong he was! When he kissed her brow and
hair and eyes she could feel his lips quiver.
He would love her too much! He did not ask her to kiss him in return.
He was so good ... so generous! He had given her back her children. For
that she could have knelt at his feet. But she almost prayed that he
would not ask for her kisses ... not yet ... not yet....