She had imperceptibly moved nearer my chair until she stood quite close to my side, so that as I spoke the last words I looked up into her face.  She put her arm about my shoulders.  It is one of her pretty, caressing ways.

“I will be good—­very good,” she said.

“You will have to,” said I, leaning back my head.

She must have caught a relenting note in my voice; for what happened I feel even now a curious shame in noting down.  Her other arm flew under my chin to join its fellow, and holding me a prisoner in my chair, she bent down and kissed me.  She also laid her cheek against mine.

I am still aware of the indescribable, soft, warm pressure, although she has gone to bed hours ago.

I vow that a man must be less a man than a petrified egg to have repulsed her.  The touch of her lips was like the falling of dewy rose-petals.  Her breath was as fragrant as new-mown hay.  Her hair brushing my forehead had the odour of violets.

I sent her back to Miss Griggs.  She ran out of the room laughing merrily.  She has received plenary absolution for her shameless coquetry and her profane language.  Worse than that she has discovered how to obtain it in future.  The witch has found her witchcraft, and having once triumphantly exerted her powers, will take the earliest opportunity of doing so again.  I am fallen, both in my own eyes and hers, from my high estate.  Henceforward she will regard me only with good-humoured tolerance; I shall be to her but a non-felonious Timkins.

I was an idiot to have kissed her in return.

I have not seen her since.  I lunched at the club, and paid a formal call on Mrs. Ralph Ordeyne and my cousin Rosalie, in their sunless house in Kensington.

I met a singular lack of welcome.  Rosalie gave me a limper hand than usual, and took an early opportunity of leaving me tete-a-tete with her mother, who conversed frigidly about the warm weather.  The very tea, if possible, was colder.

I met Judith by appointment in Kensington Gardens, and walked with her homewards.  I mentioned my chilly reception.

“My dear man,” she observed—­I dislike this apostrophe, which Judith always uses by way of introduction to an unpleasant remark—­“My dear man, I have no doubt that you have as unsavoury a reputation as any one in London.  You are credited with an establishment like Solomon’s—­minus the respectable counter-balance of the wives, and your devout relatives are very properly shocked.”

I said that it was monstrous.  Judith retorted that I had brought the calumny upon myself.

“But what can I do?” I asked.

“Board her out with a suburban family, as you should have done from the first.  Even I, who am not strait-laced, consider it highly improper for you to have her alone with you in the house.”

“My dear,” said I, “there is Antoinette.”

“Tush”—­or something like it—­said Judith.