He felt the little soft fingers curl around his hand with the involuntary, pristine force of a baby's.

His heart beat tumultuously.
"Oh--" he began.

Then he stopped suddenly as Rose snatched her hand away and again gazed at the moon.
"It is a beautiful night," she remarked, and the harmless deceit of woman, which is her natural weapon, was in her voice and manner.
Horace was more obtuse.

He remained leaning eagerly towards the girl.
He extended his hand again, but she repeated, in her soft, deceitful voice, "Yes, a perfectly beautiful night." Then he observed Sylvia Whitman standing beside them.

"It is a nice night enough," said she, "but you'll both catch your deaths of cold at this open window.