Lucy kissed him on the cheek. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. She turned back into the hall. He is the kind of man who would much prefer a little dust in his eyes.
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