richly profit further scenic efforts; he only lost himself in the consciousness of all she invited him to believe. It took licence, this consciousness, the next moment, for a tremendous further throb, from what she had gone on to say to him in so many words—though indeed the words were nothing and it was all a matter but of the implication that glimmered through them: "Do you want very much your supper here?" And then while he felt himself glare, for charmed response, almost to the point of his tears rising with it: "Because if you don't—!"
"Because if I don't—?" She had paused, not from the faintest shade of timidity, but clearly for the pleasure of making him press.
"Why shouldn't we go together, letting me drive you home?"
"You'll come home with me?" gasped John Berridge, while the perspiration on his brow might have been the morning dew on a high lawn of Mount Ida.
"No—you had better come with me. That's what I mean; but I certainly will come to you with pleasure some time if you'll let me."
She made no more than that of the most fatuous of freedoms, as he felt directly he had spoken that it might have seemed to her; and before he had even time to welcome the relief of not having then himself, for beastly contrition, to make more of it, she had simply mentioned, with her affectionate ease, that she wanted to get away, that of the bores
