She touched his arm lightly and in her eyes was a glow caught from his own. “It’s fine,” she said. “I think I understand. I’m going to understand better. I guess I’ll be an American, too.”
There was a rap on the door, and Potter, thinking it was one of his machinists, called to come in. Cantor entered, hesitated when he saw Hildegarde.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I didn’t know you were engaged.”
“Come in, Cantor.... This is Miss von Essen. You know her father, I think.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Cantor, advancing, a graceful, forceful, pleasing figure. “I didn’t know Miss von Essen had returned.” His eyes were fixed upon her boldly, but not offensively—admiringly. “I have heard much of Miss von Essen, and even saw her once at a distance. Since then I have hoped it might be my privilege to be presented to her.”
Even as he spoke he was studying her face intently. He turned a sharp glance upon Potter, and apparently was satisfied. In spite of his well-trained face and manner, he had been unable to conceal a trace of embarrassment, of uneasiness. It had passed unnoticed by Potter. Hildegarde had set it down to her unexpected presence.
“Cantor is about all the company I have here,” Potter said.
“I shall come more frequently now if surprises like this are to be expected.”
Potter turned to Hildegarde. “It was no end good of you to come,” he said, “but really, you know, you shouldn’t.... And you mustn’t come again.”
“I shall,” she said, defiantly, “whenever I want to.”