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She watched him furtively
for some time from behind the tall sides of the old-fashioned escritoire;
he sat very still, stretched out, frowning, pale. Suddenly she rose and
crossed the room.
"It's too much trouble to write letters," she said. "Are you inclined for
a stroll, Mr. Quisante?"
He sprang up, a sudden gleam darting into his eyes. She was afraid he
would make some ornate speech, but perhaps he was startled into
simplicity, perhaps only at a loss; he stammered out no more than
"Thanks, very much," and followed her through the doorway on to the
gravel-walk. For a little while she did not speak, then she said,
"It's good of you to be friends with me again. I was very impertinent
that night after your speech. I don't know what made me do it."
He did not answer, and she turned to find his eyes fixed intently on her
face.
"We are friends again, aren't we?" she asked rather nervously; she knew
that she risked a renewal of the flirtation, and if it were again what it
had been her friendship could scarcely survive the trial.


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