"I wanted to see you," he said. "I don't know why," and paused.
He did not know; but in declaring it to her, and in that pause, came a step nearer discovery. Some nameless reason held his speech, and, while she waited, fluttered in his eyes and communicated its influence to her also. In that pause suspicion came to both of some strange element that trembled in the air—fugitive, remote, but causing its presence to be known as a scent declares itself upon the breeze. She saw a tinge of redness kindle in his face. He saw the faintest trace of deepening colour in the shades upon her cheeks.
Not yet, not yet the truth! Transient the spell and quickly gone. Only, a little shaken by it, "You're going away soon, Dora," he said. "I think that's why I came."
Free of it: "But that's not a reason," she answered him lightly. "I am not going so suddenly—not till the end of the week."
"Saturday—it's the day after to-morrow."
"Ah, well, time goes so slowly here."
"Dull for you—I can imagine that. To this French school, are you going, Dora? I heard you telling Lady Burdon of it."
"It's not a school. No more school for me, and I am very thankful."
"Tell me what you do there."
She went into a sudden break of laughter. She had somewhere picked up a single vulgar phrase that consorted most strangely with her precise manner of speech. "Your coming here like this," she laughed, "and asking such very funny things!"—then used her phrase—"it tickles me to death."