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“Look here,” he said, leaning towards her, “there’s not a soul about; they’re in the middle of the Lancers. Let me kiss you once—it can’t matter to you—and it will mean so very much to me.”

“That’s just it,” she said; “if it didn’t mean”

“Then it shan’t mean anything but good-bye. It’s only about eight years since you gave up the habit of kissing me on every occasion.”

She looked down, then she looked to right and left, then suddenly she looked at him.

“Very well,” she said suddenly.

“No,” he said; “I won’t have it unless it does mean something.”

There was a silence. “Our dance, I think?” said the voice of one bending before her, and she was borne away on the arm of the partner from whom she had been hiding.

Rupert left early. He had not been able to secure any more dances with her. She left late. When she came to think the evening over, she sighed more than once. “I wish I loved him a little less, or a little more,” she said; “and I wish—yes, I do wish he had. I don’t suppose he’ll care a bit for me when I come back.”