“She never was as beautiful as you, my darling—­nobody ever was—­nobody ever could be!” he cried, ignoring all allusion to her mother.  Nothing else counted with the young fellow to-night—­all he knew and cared for was that Kate was his very own, and that all the world would soon know it.

“That’s because you love me, Harry.  You have only to look at her portrait in father’s room to see how exquisite she was.  I can never be like her—­never so gracious, so patient, no matter how hard I try.”

He put his fingers on her lips:  “I won’t have you say it.  I won’t let anybody say it.  I could hardly speak when I saw you in the full light of the hall.  It was so dark in the coach I didn’t know how you looked, and I didn’t care; I was so glad to get hold of you.  But when your cloak slipped from your shoulders and you—­Oh!—­you darling Kate!” His eye caught the round of her throat and the taper of her lovely arm—­“I am going to kiss you right here—­I will—­I don’t care who—­”

She threw up her hands with a little laugh.  She liked him the better for daring, although she was afraid to yield.

“No—­no—­Harry!  They will see us—­don’t—­you mustn’t!”

“Mustn’t what!  I tell you, Kate, I am going to kiss you—­I don’t care what you say or who sees me.  It’s been a year since I kissed you in the coach—­forty years—­now, you precious Kate, what difference does it make?  I will, I tell you—­no—­don’t turn your head away.”

She was struggling feebly, her elbow across her face as a shield, meaning all the time to raise her lips to his, when her eyes fell on the figure of a young man making his way toward them.  Instantly her back straightened.

“There’s Langdon Willits at the bottom of the stairs talking to Mark Gilbert,” she whispered in dismay.  “See—­he is coming up.  I wonder what he wants.”

Harry gathered himself together and his face clouded.  “I wish he was at the bottom of the sea.  I don’t like Willits—­I never did.  Neither does Uncle George.  Besides, he’s in love with you, and he always has been.”

“What nonsense, Harry,” she answered, opening her fan and waving it slowly.  She knew her lover was right—­knew more indeed than her lover could ever know:  she had used all the arts of which she was mistress to keep Willits from proposing.

“But he is in love with you,” Harry insisted stiffly.  “Won’t he be fighting mad, though, when he hears father announce our engagement at supper?” Then some tone in her voice recalled that night on the sofa when she still held out against his pleading, and with it came the thought that while she could be persuaded she could never be driven.  Instantly his voice changed to its most coaxing tones:  “You won’t dance with him, will you, Kate darling?  I can’t bear to see you in anybody else’s arms but my own.”

Her hand grasped his wrist with a certain meaning in the pressure.

“Now don’t be a goose, Harry.  I must be polite to everybody, especially to-night—­and you wouldn’t have me otherwise.”