“What time is it?”
“About two o’clock. Ain’t you hungry?”
Orme laughed softly. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Wait a minute.” She moved away. When she returned she pulled up the hanging and opened the panel. In her hand was a thick sandwich. “I was just going to eat my own lunch when you came back through the window,” she explained.
He took the sandwich. She looked at him boldly. He was standing close to her in the opening. There was an expression that was almost defiant in her eyes. “I—I want my present.”
“You shall have it, Madame Alia,” he said.
“You ain’t my kind—and it won’t make no difference to you.” Her voice faltered and her eyes dropped. “I want you to kiss me.”
Orme looked at her, and understood. He put his arms around her and kissed her gently on the lips. There was no disloyalty in it. He was simply satisfying the craving of this poor woman’s soul—a craving for a tribute to which she could always revert as the symbol of a high friendliness. She felt that he was of a different world; he knew that the world was all one, though partitioned off by artificial barriers, but he could not correct her view.
She clung to him for a moment after his lips left hers, then released herself from his clasp and moved back into the room, her face averted. Was it to hide a blush? Orme did not ask himself, but respecting her reticence of spirit, silently closed the panel and was again in darkness.
For a time he stood there quietly. His back was against the wall,—his hands easily touched the paneling that shut him off from the room. He wondered what this secret place was for, and taking a match from his pocket, he lighted it.