“Well, how do you do?” she said, finding him as usual in the morning-room, “I think we have got him,” she added, picking up the threads of their last conversation.
“That is Rodrigg, of course,” said Perior, looking with a pleasure he could not conceal at her charming appearance. He felt for a moment like telling her that in that dress she was bewitchingly pretty, but checked the impulse with some surprise at it.
“Yes, I argued out the whole third clause with him yesterday,” said Camelia, smiling her happiest smile, for she was quite conscious of those unspoken words.
“Dear me!”
“He seemed impressed—though you are not. Sit down.”
“He seemed what he was not, no doubt—I haven’t the faculty.” Perior spoke quite good-temperedly. Indeed, Camelia’s political manœuvres did not displease him—consoled him in a sense. There was a pretty folly about them quite touching, and her earnestness seemed to vouch for some real feeling.
“Why should you imagine that he pretends?” she asked, taking the place beside him on the sofa and leaning forward, her arms on her knees.
“The man wants to please you,” said Perior, looking at her white hands hanging idly together. He wondered again whether egotism or a real fondness for Arthur moved her.
The long delay of the engagement excited and made him nervous. It had usually been so easy to see through Camelia, and he did not like the perplexity. Still, the thought that she hesitated pleased him; she would accept Arthur, doubtlessly, but at least she would imagine that she cared for him. Camelia had gained some moral value in his eyes from that pause.
“Why should you imagine that he pretends?” she asked, feeling delightedly that the atmosphere was much less chilling than usual.