She
said it, a little hesitatingly.
"We never say words like that at home," she whispered. "Only mother did,
because she was English--"
"I'm English, too. I like words like that. Now say 'Louis darling.'"
"It sounds as if you're a baby."
"So I am--Marcella's baby," he whispered. "Say 'Louis darling.'"
"I can't, Louis," she said uneasily, "I can't _say_ love things. I can
only do them. I love you--oh, most dreadfully, but I can't talk about
it."
She buried her face on his shoulder. Through his thin canvas coat she
could feel his heart thumping as hers was.
"I'm going to kiss that funny little hollow place at the bottom of your
neck," she whispered in a smothered voice. "What a good thing you don't
wear collars in the Indian Ocean! Louis, tell me all the funny Latin
names for the bones in your fingers, and I'll kiss them all--I can't say
silly words to you like--like Violet could."
After a while he tried to carry his point.
"Now say 'Louis darling,'" he insisted.
She shook her head.
"Why can't you be like an ordinary girl?" he objected, holding her tight
so that he could look into her face. "Ordinary girls don't mind calling
a chap darling."
"I can't, anyway. I _never_ can talk much, unless I'm simply taken out
of myself and made to. I can't imagine what we'll find to talk about all
the time when we're married.
Pages:
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247