"Well," answered Tommy with laborious truthfulness, "I suppose they really _look_ more like tiger's eyes. But they make me _think_ of stars," he added, with a perfect burst of romance and poetry.

"And stars make you think of tiger's eyes! Oh, my poor Tommy!"

"Well, they're dev'lish good-lookin'--you ought to feel jolly complimented!" He wanted to go on and say something about her acting like a tiger, but did not feel quite up to it, at such short notice. But they laughed companionably together.

Yes, Tommy really amused her. There was much to like in the simplicity and kindliness of his nature; Harry had not been proof against it. And there was no harm in him. Beatrice could imagine no more innocuous pleasure than talking with Tommy, even if the conversation ran to eyes--her eyes. She was not bothered this time by any nervous reflections on what fields of amus.e.m.e.nt were suited to the innocent ramblings of a young wife. And if she was inclined to emphasize the pleasant part of her intercourse and minimize its danger--if indeed there was any--the reason was not far to seek. Even if things went to the last resort, what of it? What had she to lose--now?

Nothing. Not one earthly thing. She was free to glean where she could.

James would be glad--as glad as any one.

Though of course it had not come to that yet....

It was at about this time, however, that Tommy determined it should come to that. Just that. And though he was not one to rush matters, he decided that the sooner it came the better. He learned that James was to come up for a fortnight at the end of August--James' vacation had for some reason dwindled to that length of time--and he desired, in some obscure way, to have it decided before James was actually in the house.

But the way had to be paved for the great suggestion and Tommy was not perceptibly quicker at paving than at other intellectual pursuits.

One evening, however, he resolved to be a man of action and at least give an indication of the state of his own heart. With almost devilish craft he decided beforehand on the exact way he would bring the conversation round to the desired point.

"I say, Beatrice," he began when they were settled in their customary place.

"Yes, Tommy?"

"How long do you suppose your aunt wants me kickin' my heels about here?"

"Oh, as long as you want, I suppose. She hasn't told me she was tired of you."

"Yes, but ..."

"But what?"

"I've been here a goodish while, you know. First the boat-race, then the cruise up here, then most of July and now most of August.... Stiffish, wot?... Don't want to wear out my welcome, you know...."

Oh, but it was hard! Why on earth couldn't she do the obvious thing and say, "Why do you want to leave, Tommy?" or something like that? She seemed determined not to give him the least help, so he plunged desperately on.

"Not that I _want_ to go, you know. Jolly pleasant here, and all that--rippin' golf, rippin' people, rippin' time altogether...."

He felt himself perspiring profusely.

"Beatrice, do you know _why_ I don't want to go?" he burst forth.

Beatrice remained silent, lightly tapping the stone bal.u.s.trade with her foot. When she spoke it was with perfect self-possession.

"You're not going to be tiresome again, are you, Tommy?"

"Yes!" said Tommy fervently.

Again she paused. "Are you really fond of me, Tommy?" she asked unexpectedly.

"Oh, Lord, yes!"

"How fond?"

"Oh ... frightf'ly!... What do you mean, how fond? You know! Do you want me to throw myself into the sea?... I would," he added in a low voice.

"I didn't mean how much, exactly, but in what way? What do you mean by it all?"

"What's the use of asking me? You know!"

"No, I don't think I do.... Are you fond enough of me to desire everything for my good?"

"Yes!"

"Even at the sacrifice of yourself?"

"Yes!"

"Well, don't you think it's for my ultimate good as a married woman that you shouldn't try to make love to me?"

"What the--Beatrice, don't torment me!"

"I don't want to, but you must see how impossible it is, Tommy. You can't go on talking this way to me."

"Why not?"

"Why, because I'm _married_, obviously! Such things are--well, they simply aren't done!"

Tommy waited a moment. "Do you mean to say, Beatrice...."

"What?"

"Can you truthfully tell me that you--that you aren't fond of me too?

Just a little?"

"Certainly!"

"Rot! Utter, senseless rot! You know it isn't so!--"

"Hush, Tommy! People will hear."

"Let 'em hear, then. Beatrice!" he went on more quietly; "there's no use trying to take me in by that 'never knew' rot. Of course you knew, of course you cared. Why've you sat talking with me here, night after night, why've you been so uncommon jolly nice--nicer 'n you ever were before? Why did you ever let me get to this point?--Don't pretend you couldn't help it, either!" He paused a moment. "Why did you let me kiss you that night?"

That shaft hit. She lost her head a little, and fell back on an old feminine ruse.

"Oh, Tommy, you've no right to bring that up against me!" she said, with a little flurried break in her voice.

Tommy's obvious answer was a quiet "Why not?" but he was not the kind who can give the proper answer at such moments. He was much more affected by Beatrice's evident perturbation than Beatrice was by his home truth, and was much slower in recovering.

"I'm sorry, Beatrice," he went on again after a short silence, "but I--well, dash it all, I _care_, you know!"