Philip reddened.  He was afraid that Miss Wilkinson would think him a milksop:  after all she was a young woman, sometimes quite pretty, and he was getting on for twenty; it was absurd that they should talk of nothing but art and literature.  He ought to make love to her.  They had talked a good deal of love.  There was the art-student in the Rue Breda, and then there was the painter in whose family she had lived so long in Paris:  he had asked her to sit for him, and had started to make love to her so violently that she was forced to invent excuses not to sit to him again.  It was clear enough that Miss Wilkinson was used to attentions of that sort.  She looked very nice now in a large straw hat:  it was hot that afternoon, the hottest day they had had, and beads of sweat stood in a line on her upper lip.  He called to mind Fraulein Cacilie and Herr Sung.  He had never thought of Cacilie in an amorous way, she was exceedingly plain; but now, looking back, the affair seemed very romantic.  He had a chance of romance too.  Miss Wilkinson was practically French, and that added zest to a possible adventure.  When he thought of it at night in bed, or when he sat by himself in the garden reading a book, he was thrilled by it; but when he saw Miss Wilkinson it seemed less picturesque.

At all events, after what she had told him, she would not be surprised if he made love to her.  He had a feeling that she must think it odd of him to make no sign:  perhaps it was only his fancy, but once or twice in the last day or two he had imagined that there was a suspicion of contempt in her eyes.

“A penny for your thoughts,” said Miss Wilkinson, looking at him with a smile.

“I’m not going to tell you,” he answered.

He was thinking that he ought to kiss her there and then.  He wondered if she expected him to do it; but after all he didn’t see how he could without any preliminary business at all.  She would just think him mad, or she might slap his face; and perhaps she would complain to his uncle.  He wondered how Herr Sung had started with Fraulein Cacilie.  It would be beastly if she told his uncle:  he knew what his uncle was, he would tell the doctor and Josiah Graves; and he would look a perfect fool.  Aunt Louisa kept on saying that Miss Wilkinson was thirty-seven if she was a day; he shuddered at the thought of the ridicule he would be exposed to; they would say she was old enough to be his mother.

“Twopence for your thoughts,” smiled Miss Wilkinson.

“I was thinking about you,” he answered boldly.

That at all events committed him to nothing.

“What were you thinking?”

“Ah, now you want to know too much.”

“Naughty boy!” said Miss Wilkinson.

There it was again!  Whenever he had succeeded in working himself up she said something which reminded him of the governess.  She called him playfully a naughty boy when he did not sing his exercises to her satisfaction.  This time he grew quite sulky.