Heberdon was not one of your headlong lovers; he did not fall to his knees beside the low chair, and crush her to him, though, he told himself, she half expected it. Like an experienced wine bibber, he preferred to roll her under his tongue for a while.
“How lovely you are!” he murmured—and that at least was sincere.
“Pooh!” she pouted. “I hate compliments. I’m no society girl. When anybody pays me compliments I don’t know where to look!”
“Then you do really hate them,” he said acutely.
“You’re too sharp!”
He drew a chair as close to hers as he could, and sat upon it gloating over her beauty. She exhaled a subtle and delicious fragrance.
“What scent do you use?” he asked suddenly.
“That’s something no true woman tells,” she retorted. “You must think of it as me, not as something tha
