“It’s very kind of you,” he muttered.
She mimicked him. “ ‘It’s very kind of you.’ Ah, you are so solemn. It is as if you did not like me.”
He managed to smile. “Oh, I like you, all right.”
“But you do not trust me? I understand. You see me dancing in Le Jockey Cabaret and you say, because you are so experienced: ‘Ah! I must be careful of this lady.’ Eh? But I am a friend. You are so silly.”
“Yes, I am silly.”
“But you do like me?”
“Yes, I like you.” A stupid, fantastic suggestion was taking root in his mind.
“Then you must trust me, also.”
“Yes, I must.” It was absurd, of course. He couldn’t trust her. Her motives were as transparent as the day. He couldn’t trust anybody. He was alone; damnably alone. If he had someone to talk to about it, it wouldn’t be so bad. Now supposing Banat had seen that he was nervous and concluded that he was on his guard. Had he or hadn’t he seen? She could tell him that.
“What are you thinking about?”