“You think I am safe. I must allow you, I suppose?”
“Yes, you must.” She smiled a very decided little smile, adding gravely, “I have confided in you.”
“Trust me.” There was silence in the cab for some moments. The tall trees of the Cours la Reine dripped in a misty mass on one side; on the other was the Seine with its lights.
“And the young man I saw at the door as you came out to-day?” said Odd.
“Oh, that is nothing, I hope. He is Mademoiselle Lebon’s brother. A harmlessly disagreeable creature, I fancy.” Odd resumed his brooding silence. “What are you thinking of so solemnly?” she asked.
“Of you.”
“Why so solemnly? I am afraid you are laboring under all sorts of false impressions. I have told my story stupidly.”
“The true impression has stupefied me. Good heavens! Theoretically I believe in the development of character at all costs, and you have certainly developed a rara avis in the line; but practically, practically, my dear little girl, I would have you taken care of in cotton-wool, guarded, protected; you would always be lovely, and you would have been happy. You have been very unhappy.”
Hilda was looking at him with that rather vague look of impersonal contemplation characteristic of her.
“How you exaggerate things,” she said, smiling; “I have not been unhappy.”