He sprang to his feet. "Look here, Olivia," he cried, nervously, holding his chair by the back, "what does it all mean? What are you leading up to?"
"I'm telling you as plainly as I can."
"What you aren't telling me as plainly as you can is which of us you're in love with."
She colored. It was one of those blushes that spread up the temples and over the brows and along the line of the hair with the splendor of a stormy dawn.
"I didn't know the question had been raised," she said, "but since apparently it has—"
It might have been contrition for a foolish speech, or fear of what she was going to say, that prompted him to interrupt her hurriedly:
"I beg your pardon. It was idiotic of me to say that. I didn't mean it. As a matter of fact, I'm jumpy. I'm not master of myself. So much has been happening—"
He came round the table, and, snatching one of her hands, he kissed it again and again. He even sank on one knee beside her, holding her close to him. With the hand that remained free she stroked his crisp, wavy, iron-gray hair as a sign of pardon.
"You're quite wrong about me," he persisted.
"Even if you're right about other Englishmen—which I don't admit—you're wrong about me, by Jove! If I had to give up everything I had in the world I should have all the compensation a man could desire if I got you."