with the satisfied tolerance a pretty woman can so easily extend when unconquerable ardor has prompted to rashness.
“Oh, you funny, prim Yankee!” she murmured. “You don't understand even now just why you did it!”
His face revealed that he did not in the least understand.
“Come here,” she invited.
He went three steps across the narrow cabin and stood in an attitude of respectful obedience before her.
“What now, sir?” It was query even more provocative—a smile went with it.
“I apologize. I have learned my lesson.”
“You need to learn a lot—you are very ignorant,” she replied, with considerable tartness.
“Yes,” he agreed, humbly.
What happened then was so wholly outside his reckoning that the preceding events of the evening retired tamely into the background. It had been conceivable that rush of passion might drive him to break all the rules of conduct his New England conscience had set over him; but what Alma Marston did overwhelmed him with such stupefaction that he stood there as rigid and motionless as a belaying-pin in a rack. She put up her arms, pressed her two hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him on his lips.
“There, foolish old Yankee,” she said, softly, her mouth close to his; “since you are so ashamed I give you back your kiss—and all is made right between us, because we are just where we started a little while ago.”
His amazement had so benumbed him that even after that surrender he stood there, close to her, his countenance blank, his arms dangling at his side.
“What on earth is the matter with you?” she asked, petulantly.
“I don't know! I—I—I don't seem to understand.”
“I'm going to be honest with you. You are so honest you will understand me, then,” she told him. It seemed to him that he must be mistaken, but he certainly felt her arms were slipping up his shoulders and had met behind his neck. “I
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