Archelaus because it felt he was so much the male. Phoebe had been
safeguarded all her short life by her notions of gentility and by her
fear, the fear, not of consequences, but, less base than that, the fear
of actual passion, which is often implanted in very passionate girls as
though to guard them till the time comes.

When they reached the first stile Phoebe lifted her skirts and
pattered up to it, stood poised upon its crest, and then, with a little
gasp, yielded to Archelaus's strong arms as he seized her and swung her
down bodily.

"Such a lil' bit of a thing as you be," said Archelaus; "like a lil' cat
in my arms, so soft and all."

They went on, he leading and brushing away the tendrils of bramble and
the tougher branches of furze across the narrow cliff-path. At each
stile he lifted her, only now he picked her up as they approached and
carried her right over them. At the last stile he held her instead of
putting her down when they reached the further side.

"Put me down, Archelaus," she whispered. He still held her, his hands
beneath her armpits, so that they cupped the curve of her breast, her
face just beneath his, her feet dangling.

"I'll have a kiss afore putten 'ee down, then. I've never kissed 'ee
since you was a lil' maid to school."

"No!" said Phoebe; "no!" She did not know why she protested; she had
been kissed with the awkward shy kisses of youth often enough for her
years, but she turned her mouth this way and that to escape his. He went