“I do not know: he has always avoided me, more than he has other people, I mean—and once when I spoke to him, the strangest expression crossed his face.”
“I do not understand. He has always been very kind to me. Are you sure that you like him?”
“I am indifferent to him; that is, I admire him, as everyone must who has eyes and an understanding. But I have no feeling toward him; he does not seem to have any place in my life.”
“He has in mine,” she reluctantly admitted. “I often go to him for advice.”
“Was it by his advice,” whispered Clarke, bending till his mouth touched her ear, “that you gave me your heart?”
The little hand that lay on his arm drew itself slowly out and fell quite softly and significantly on her heaving breast.
“No,” said she. “I have another adviser here, fully as powerful as he can ever be.”
The gesture, the accent were so charming that he was provoked at the peering curiosity of the persons accompanying them. He would have liked to kiss those rosy lips for the sweetest thing they had ever said.
Had the midnight visitor of a few weeks back known what a careless crowd would soon invade these hidden premises he might not have been so wary in his movements. When Polly reached her father’s desk, she found one or two neighbors there before her.
“Oh, look at this curious old inkstand!” exclaimed one.