"I would like you to try and think there is a substratum of good."
She ignored his speech, rather the significance in the tone of its delivery; said:
"I did not know—I confess openly, you see. This makes but the third of yours I have read."
"Then there is a possibility of interest being left in the three you have not read. Let the weather be my excuse for forcing them on you."
"As if an excuse were needed! Pray do not speak of your kindness so!"
"Then—I have some work I must finish this afternoon for the post—may I bring them to you this evening?"
She hesitated a moment. Induced to do so by a thought of the unwisdom of playing with fire. His hyper-sensitive nature made him shrink from that hesitation, to nervously say:
"I beg your pardon. I mean I will make a parcel of them and send them up to you."
The note of pain in his voice was so plain that any question of her wisdom—or want of it—vanished. She was moved to put her hand on his arm; to say:
"Don't deprive me of half the pleasure of the gift. Please bring them yourself."