The moment the word was out he felt, with horror, the folly of his mistake. "Pretend to,--I mean," he corrected hurriedly. "Of course in acting--it's always pretence--and in this instance--I only ... you know----"
He broke off, at a loss for words. He dared not even look at her. The ominous pause prolonged itself. He felt an insane desire to laugh.
"With any other girl"--he thought--"but this girl ... oh! _hang_ it all!" He grabbed at a peach. Viciously he dug his fork into it, searching in his empty brain for some sensible remark. But....
"I think it's going to snow----" was all that came to him after due thought. He said it with the air of a weather expert. "It's so awfully chilly..." And then a faint laugh startled him into a side-long glance.
Cydonia's face was pink and in her smooth cheek the dimple betrayed her battle with mirth.
"Snow?" said the Bishop. "Indeed, I trust not. One hopes at this time of year the winter is getting past. Not that we have much snow at Oxton."
"Say I'm forgiven?" McTaggart's voice was humble.
But Cydonia had recovered. She sat bolt upright, brown eyes discreetly lowered upon her plate.
"If you don't speak to me soon--" this in tragic tones--"I'll cut my throat with a silver knife. It will be a long business--painful too..." He checked his rising mischief, trying to probe her thought.
But the fact was Cydonia was somewhat at a loss. For the first time she tasted the consciousness of power--sweet, indeed, to the schoolgirl in her opening year of life. She wanted to be dignified and she wanted to laugh. And behind it all lay a curious joy--a touch of excitement and of wonder that hurt ... She wrapped it up in silence, mistrustful of speech.
"I want you to understand," McTaggart was watching her. The little scene had gained a sudden significance. "However I might laugh--or joke, you know, I never could _think_ of you without respect. And if you take this part I'd hate you to feel ... that you weren't quite safe with me. D'you see what I mean." He took a deep breath and plunged in again. "I might flirt with Mrs. Bying--she's fair game, you know--but you----you're different..."
For Cydonia had looked up and in her shy eyes he read a childish gratitude and with it, sweet and deep, the dawn of a woman's comprehension of men.