for the giving and receiving of a few of those thirty kisses. Then the voice sang on:
“Le lendemain Phillis peu sage
Aurait donne moutons et chien
Pour un baiser que le volage
À Lisette donnait pour rien.”
The last note died away into an uninterrupted silence.
“Are you better?” Denis whispered. “Are you comfortable like this?”
She nodded a Yes to both questions.
“Trente moutons pour un baiser.” The sheep, the woolly mutton—baa, baa, baa...? Or the shepherd? Yes, decidedly, he felt himself to be the shepherd now. He was the master, the protector. A wave of courage swelled through him, warm as wine. He turned his head, and began to kiss her face, at first rather randomly, then, with more precision, on the mouth.
Anne averted her head; he kissed the ear, the smooth nape that this movement presented him. “No,” she protested; “no, Denis.”
“Why not?”
“It spoils our friendship, and that was so jolly.”
