"In this case," Sinclair answered, "the widow seems to be bearing her sorrow pretty lightly!"
"Old husbands are soon forgotten by young wives," observed Greaves philosophically. "When I was in Minorca, in the old Benbow, in '72 or '73," he began, and told Sinclair with never-ending gusto one of his somewhat highly-spiced stories of youthful adventures of his midship days.
In the meantime Parkson conducted Mrs. Beecher Monmouth down to her waiting motor-car. They descended the steep hillside, and Parkson still helped her on every occasion. The hired Ford car had been turned in the narrow road. Parkson, with a glance at his watch, helped her into the vehicle, daringly stepped in beside her, and placed the dust-cover over both their knees.
"I can have a five minutes' drive with you and get back by seven," he announced.
"Your eyes invited me," he returned audaciously, and under the dust-cover he slid his fingers towards hers.
There ensued a palpitating moment, then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned her radiantly beautiful face slightly towards him; under long, curved lashes she gave him a sidelong glance. Then, so that the chauffeur should not overhear, she whispered, framing the words with her lips:
But she did not remove her hand, which was now enclosed in his.
Parkson thought it a lucky chance that she had discarded her gloves. Parkson, in fact, was green enough to trust her absolutely. He was, indeed, the veriest babe in her hands. Her face was full towards him now. She was smiling, exhibiting her splendid teeth, and looking deep into his eyes. Her black hat and widow's weeds added only to the brilliancy of her complexion, to the scarlet richness of her fine lips. There was something in her gaze, in the warm intensity of her regard, its lingering softness, that utterly swept away Parkson's self-possession. He leaned toward her and dropped his voice.
"If it wasn't for the sentries there on the hill-top," he murmured, "I'd kiss you now!"
She had a way of talking with her lips and uttering no sound that concentrated attention on her sensuous charms.
Parkson's five minutes in the car seemed to him five minutes of heaven. He was completely and utterly enamoured--and as to the future, the future seemed to blaze before him in radiant and glorious romance. He wondered how far he could go--he had never seen a woman like her. Beautiful, feminine, coy, loving.... What a blind idiot, thought he, Beecher Monmouth must have been to shoot himself.