"I suppose I am
not so strong as I used to be. I have had scarcely anything to
eat for two days and conversation has become an unknown luxury.
I think--it seems absurd--but I think that I am feeling a little
faint."
"The air will soon revive you," he said. "As to our
conversation, I am disappointed. I think that you are very
foolish not to tell me more about yourself."
She closed her eyes, ignoring his remark. They turned presently
into a narrower thoroughfare. She leaned towards him.
"You have been very good to me," she admitted almost timidly,
"and I am afraid that I have not been very gracious. We shall
not see one another again after this evening. I wonder--would
you care to kiss me?"
He opened his lips and closed them again. He sat quite still,
his eyes fixed upon the road ahead, until he had strangled
something absolutely absurd, something unrecognizable.
"I would rather not," he decided quietly. "I know you mean to be
kind but that sort of thing--well, I don't think I understand it.
Besides," he added with a sudden na‹ve relief, as he clutched at
a fugitive but plausible thought, "if I did you would not believe
the things which I have been telling you."
He had a curious idea that she was disappointed as she turned her
head away, but she said nothing. Arrived at the Embankment, the
cab came slowly to a standstill. The girl descended. There was
something new in her manner; she looked away from him when she
spoke.
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