Love Lies Dreaming by C S Forester Page B

time when I had to fight desperately hard to keep myself in hand. I drew her close to my breast, but I could not take what was offered me out of pity before Constance had learned to offer it me in love. I explained somehow, and Constance was content. She kissed me sleepily.
    â€œWhat big bulgy muscles you have,” she murmured inconsequently, as she turned over to sleep. And then, five minutes afterward: “It’s nice knowing that you’re near me in the night, dear.”
    I slept more happily that night than I did the night before.
    Next day was glorious. Constance breakfasted in bed, in her royally lazy fashion, but as I sat beside her we talked happily and gaily.
    â€œI feel almost as though I were married,” said Constance, and stopped abruptly. I felt the same—on good terms with myself, and with Constance, and with all the world. I had to do something to prove to myself that I was being granted a privileged position with relation to Constance. I roamed round the room. I pulled her dressing table articles about, fooled with her powder puff, criticized her boudoir cap. With a dexterous twitch I removed from the chair the petticoat which concealed more intimate portions of Constance’s attire.
    â€œFie, for shame!” said Constance, but she wasn’t really upset about it, although I took hold of the garments and held them up to inspection.
    â€œWhat in the name of fortune is
this
thing?” I asked. I held the thing up and peered at it. It was a stiff sort of waistcoat affair, with an intriguing lace running criss-cross down the back—or front, as the case might be.
    â€œI didn’t know you wore corsets, old thing,” I said.
    â€œNeither do I. That, young man, is a B.B., and at your age you shouldn’t know about such things.”
    And no amount of urging would induce Constance to tell me anything further about the B.B. In the end she cast me from the room so that she could dress.
    I was sitting in the veranda when she came down. As soon as she caught sight of me she set her features into an absurdly magisterial expression.
    â€œYoung man,” she said, “come away, where I can speak to you more privately.” She led the way out round the lawn, and I followed like a lamb to the slaughter. When we reached a caterpillary summer-house she stopped, drew me into it, and turned and faced me, with her hands on my shoulders.
    â€œNow speak the truth.” I wondered what was coming. “What is the meaning of that dressing case in our room, with the silver fittings, marked ‘C. T.’?”
    â€œOh, that?” I replied. “I noticed it myself. I wonder what it can be.”
    â€œOf course,” I added as an afterthought, “ ‘C. T.’
might
stand for Constance Trevor.”
    â€œDon’t wriggle, you coward,” said Constance. “Did it come down with us in the car?”
    â€œIt might have done,” I said cautiously.
    â€œFor goodness’ sake be sensible,” said Constance. “For the last time,
whose is that dressing case?
”
    â€œIt’s yours, dear,” I said, “Bridegroom’s present to the bride, and all that sort of thing, you know.”
    â€œYou dear,” said Constance, and she kissed me. “I’ve always wanted one like that,” said Constance, “it’s just the thing I’ve been longing for.” And she kissed me again.
    â€œWhy in the world didn’t you tell me about it, stupid?” asked Constance.
    â€œI thought you might rather like to find it out for yourself,” I replied, taking refuge in the truth.
    â€œAnd—and you were right for once,” said Constance, kissing me for the third time.
    It was then that I noticed a gardener watching all this performance with the keenest interest, but I didnot care a button. I at once brought the total up to four.
    For the rest of that morning we bathed—at least Constance bathed for