“Don’t mock me, Jane,” he said seriously. Then a little hesitantly. “I’m awfully glad you’re sorry.”
“Of course I’m sorry,” said Jane. “But I don’t know that you ought to be glad about it.”
“Just the same, I am,” said Stephen a little tremulously.
Silence fell on the room once more.
“Jane—” said Stephen presently and paused. He was still standing on the hearth rug. He was looking down at Jane very steadily.
“Yes,” said Jane nervously. Her eyes were on the fire.
“Don’t you think—don’t you think,” said Stephen almost humorously, “that it’s just about time for me to ask you again?”
It was very disarming. Jane couldn’t help twinkling up at him.
“There’s no time like the present,” she said.
“Jane!” In a moment he was beside her on the sofa. “Jane—does that mean—” He had her hands in his.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” said Jane hastily.
“I don’t believe you,” said Stephen. He was very close to her. His eyes were gazing eagerly into hers. His lips were twisted in a funny little excited smile.
“I don’t believe you at all,” said Stephen. “Jane—” And suddenly he kissed her. His moustache felt rough and bristly against her lips.
“Oh!” said Jane, drawing back. Her heart was beating fast. That kiss was strangely exciting.
“Darling!” said Stephen. His arms were around her now. Jane’s hands were pressed against the tweed lapels of his coat.
“Kiss me again!” said Stephen.
“I—I didn’t kiss you!” cried Jane in protest. “I—I didn’t at all!”
“But you will,” said Stephen. His face was flushed and eager. His eyes were gazing ardently into her own. Jane stared into them, fascinated. She could see the little yellow specks that seemed to float on the blue iris. She had never noticed them before.
“You will!” he declared again. And again his lips met hers. This—this was dreadful, thought Jane. She—she shouldn’t allow it. He pressed his cheek to hers. It felt very hard and just a little rough, against her own.
“Stephen,” said Jane weakly. “Really—you mustn’t.”
“Why not?” said Stephen. “I love you.”
Jane felt herself relaxing in his arms.
“You know I love you,” said Stephen.
“Well,” said Jane faintly, her head on his shoulder, “don’t—don’t kiss me again—anyway.”
Stephen laughed aloud at that. A happy, confident laugh.
“You darling!” he said. Then very happily, “I—I’m so glad you told me, Jane, before I went.”
Before he went, thought Jane desperately! Of course—he was going. She had forgotten that. But she hadn’t told him. It was all wrong, somehow. Jane looked despairingly up into his face.
“Stephen,” she said pitifully, “I—I don’t know, yet, if I love you.”
“Of course you do,” said Stephen promptly. Jane wondered, in silence.
“Jane,” said Stephen presently, “it—it’s going to be terribly hard to leave you.”
Jane did not speak. She felt all torn up inside. His tremulous voice was very moving.
“Jane,” said Stephen very quietly, “you—you wouldn’t marry me—before I went?”
Jane gave a great start. She slipped from his embrace.
“Oh—no!” cried Jane.
“I—I was afraid you wouldn’t,” said Stephen humbly.
“Oh—I couldn’t!” said Jane. “I—I couldn’t—marry—anyone.”
Stephen was smiling at her very tenderly.
“I don’t want you to marry anyone but me,” he said cheerfully.
The levity in his tone was very reassuring.
“Stephen,” said Jane, “you are a dear.”
Stephen looked absurdly pleased. It was fun to please Stephen so easily.
“What sort of ring shall I get you?” he asked.
That, again, seemed oddly terrifying.
“Oh—” said Jane evasively. “I—I don’t care. Don’t—don’t get a ring just yet.”
“Of course I will,” said Stephen. “I’ll get it tomorrow.”
Jane heard the doorbell ring—three brief peremptory peals.
“That’s Mamma!” said Jane. Then in a sudden panic. “Oh, Stephen, please—please go. I don’t want to tell her.”
“We needn’t tell her,” said Stephen calmly.
“She’d guess!” cried Jane. “You don’t know Mamma!” She heard Minnie’s step in the hall. “Oh, Stephen! Please go!”
“All right,” said Stephen. He rose a bit uncertainly.
“Come back!” said Jane wildly. “Come back after dinner! But now—I—I can’t talk to Mamma. I—I want to think.” She heard the front door open. She rose to her feet.
“Kiss me,” said Stephen. He took her in his arms. Jane slipped quickly out of them. She fairly pushed him to the door. She heard him meet her mother in the hall.
“Why Stephen!” Her mother’s voice was pleased and, mercifully, unsuspecting. Stephen’s answer was inaudible. Jane turned to poke the fire. Her mother entered the room.
“What was Stephen doing here at this hour?” she asked pleasantly.
“He came to talk about the war,” said Jane, turning over the bits of charred birch very carefully.
“The war?” said Mrs. Ward.
“He thinks he’ll enlist,” said Jane.
“Oh—I think that’s a mistake,” said Mrs. Ward earnestly.
“Well—maybe he won’t,” said Jane casually, still busy with the fire.
Mrs. Ward walked over to the desk. She laid some letters down before her husband’s chair.
“You’re a funny girl, Jane,” she said. “Don’t you care at all if he does?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jane, “I care—of course. But it’s for him to decide.” She turned to face her mother. “Is that the mail?” she asked.
“Yes,” said her mother. She was watching Jane very closely. Jane went over to the desk.
“Anything for me?” she asked.
“I didn’t notice,” said Mrs. Ward. There was a faint suggestion of irritation in her tone. Jane picked up the letters. She felt her air of indifference was just a little elaborate. Her mother left the room, however, without further parley.
Jane stood quietly, leaning against her father’s desk, absently holding the letters in her hand. What had she done, thought Jane? How had it happened? Was she glad or sorry? She could hardly believe it, now Stephen had left the room. A moment ago she had been in his arms, on that sofa. He had—kissed her. Three times. She had let him do it. She had sat with him, on that sofa that always, always, made her think of André, of that dreadful moment when André had left her—she had sat there and let him kiss her—But Stephen was going to war. She would have time. She wouldn’t tell a soul. Not a soul—except her father. She would think it all over. She would tell Stephen tonight, that, at best, it
