Part 22 (1/2)

”Yes, have to,” he repeated coolly. ”You are mine.”

”I'm not, Bertie!” she declared indignantly. ”How--how dare you hold me against my will? And you're upsetting the apples too. Bertie, you--you're a horrid cad!”

”Yes, I know,” said Bertie, an odd note of soothing in his voice. ”That's what you English people always do when you're beaten. You hurl insults, and go on fighting. But it's nothing but a waste of energy, and only makes the whipping the more thorough.”

”You hateful American!” gasped Dot. ”As if--as if--we could be beaten!”

She had struggled vainly for some seconds and was breathless. She turned suddenly in his arms and placed her hands against his shoulders, forcing him from her. Bertie instantly changed his position, seized her wrists, drew them outward, drew them upward, drew them behind his neck.

”And yet you love me,” he said. ”You love yourself better, but--you love me.”

His face was bent to hers, he looked closely into her eyes. And--perhaps it was something in his look that moved her--perhaps it was only the realisation of her own utter impotence--Dot suddenly hid her face upon his shoulder and began to cry.

His arms were about her in an instant. He held her against his heart.

”My dear, my dear, have I been a brute to you? I only wanted to make you understand. Say, Dot, don't cry, dear, don't cry!”

”I--I'm not!” sobbed Dot.

”Of course not,” he agreed. ”Anyone can see that. But still--darling--don't!”

Dot recovered herself with surprising rapidity. ”Bertie, you--you're a great big donkey!” She confronted him with wet, accusing eyes. ”What you said just now wasn't true, and if--if you're a gentleman you'll apologise.”

”I'll let you kick me all the way downstairs if you like,” said Bertie contritely. ”I didn't mean to hurt you, honest. I didn't mean to make you--”

”You didn't!” broke in Dot. ”But you didn't tell the truth. That's why I'm angry with you. You--told--a lie.”

”I?” said Bertie.

He had taken his arms quite away from her now. He seemed in fact a little afraid of touching her. But Dot showed no disposition to beat a retreat.

They faced each other in the old apple cupboard, as if it were the most appropriate place in the world for a conflict.

”Yes, you!” said Dot.

”What did I say?” asked Bertie, hastily casting back his thoughts.

She looked at him with eyes that seemed to grow more contemptuously bright every instant. ”You said,” she spoke with immense deliberation, ”that I loved myself best.”

”Well?” said Bertie.

”Well,” she said, and took up her basket as one on the point of departure, ”it wasn't true. There!”

”Dot!” His hand was on the basket too. He stopped her without touching her. ”Dot!” he said again.

Dot's eyes began to soften, a dimple showed suddenly near the corner of her mouth. ”You shouldn't tell lies, Bertie,” she said.

And that was the last remark she made for several seconds, unless the smothered protests that rose against Bertie's lips could be described as such. They were certainly not emphatic enough to make any impression, and Bertie treated them with the indifference they deserved.

Driving home, he managed to steer with one hand while he thrust the other upon his brother's knee.