She bore his scrutiny so impersonally, with such sweet and
challenging interest, that he persisted in it. Her brown hair was almost
troublesome in its prodigality. There were little curls about her neck
which defied restraint. Her cool muslin gown, even to his untutored
perceptions, revealed a distinction which the first dressmaker in London
had endorsed. She spoke the words of lifelessness, yet she possessed
everything which men desire.
"The tragedy with you," he pronounced, "is the absence of affection in
your life."
"Do you think that I haven't the power for caring?" she asked quietly.
"I think that you have had no one to care for," he answered. "I think
there has been no one to care for you in the way you wanted--but those
days are over."
For the first time she showed some signs of that faint and growing
uneasiness in his presence which brought with it a peculiar and nameless
joy. Her eyes failed to meet the challenge of his. She glanced at the
clock and changed the subject abruptly.
"Do you know that I have been here all this time," she reminded him, "and
we have not said a word about our campaign."
"There is a great deal connected with it, or rather my side of it," he
declared, "which I shall never tell you."
"You trust me?" she asked a little timidly, "You don't think that I
should betray you to my husband?"
He laughed the idea to scorn.
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