Occasionally a lightning-bug flashed phosphorescence in the air. Now the mandolins tinkled again, and a voice was singing:
That is the name I love!
It's sweet as the perfume of roses;
It's soft as the coo of the dove.
My sweetheart may call me his darling
His queen or his sugar-plum, may be,
But 'tween you and me
I'd rather that he
Would call me his dear little baby!
The two sat silent, a little apart, but neither felt uncomfortable. Some strange electric current seemed to be flowing between them. She was tense, excited, expectant. He was rapturous. He could not remember that he had ever been so happy.
She broke the silence. Do you mind if I smoke? she asked.
O, please do; I've never seen a woman smoke.
She lighted her cigarette and offered him another, which he refused. It was an experiment he did not care to try for the first time in the presence of the Countess.
What are you doing tomorrow? she queried, after another short pause.
Whatever you want to do.
I know so little about this town, except the water-works and the new . . .
