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The drawing-room at Lady Attlebridge's was a double room; in one half May
sat reading, in the other her mother dozed. May rose with a start as the
men entered together; her face flushed as she greeted Marchmont and bade
Quisante go and pay his respects to her mother.
"I hardly expected ever to see you again," she said. "And I didn't expect
Mr. Quisante to bring you." Her tone was oddly expressive at once of
pleasure and regret, of anticipation and fear. "Have you made friends?"
she asked.
He answered under the impulse of his mood.
"We must make friends," he said, "or I shall never see any more of you."
"I thought you didn't want to." She liked him too well not to show a
little coquetry, a little challenge.
"I thought so too, or tried to think so."
"I was sure you had deserted me. You said such--well, such severe
things."
"I say them all still."
"But here you are!" she cried, laughing.
"Yes, here I am," said he, but he was grave and looked intently at her.
She grew red again as she met his gaze, and frowned a little.


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