“I thought—I thought—” He faltered to a stop as the full, glorious sense of her presence overcame him. She wore the same veil.
“You thought I did not see you yesterday in the corridor?”
“I thought you might have acted more—more—”
“More cordially?”
“Well,” he said, looking down at his hands, “more like you knew we'd been introduced.”
At that she sat silent, looking away from him, and he, daring a quick glance at her, found that he might let his eyes remain upon her face. That was a dangerous place for eyes to rest, yet Alonzo Rawson was anxious for the risk. The car flew along the even asphalt on its way to the country like a wild goose on a long slant of wind, and, with his foolish fury melted inexplicably into honey, Alonzo looked at her—and looked at her—till he would have given an arm for another quick corner and a street-car to send his cheek against that veiled, cold cheek of hers again. It was not until they reached the alternate vacant lots and bleak Queen Anne cottages of the city's ragged edge that she broke the silence.
“You were talking to some one else,” she said almost inaudibly.
“Yes ma'am, Goldstein, but—”
“Oh, no!” She turned toward him, lifting her hand. “You were quite the lion among ladies.”
“I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Protheroe,” he said, truthfully.