Evidently her father had told her more than she cared to relate. Fairchild caught the inflection in her voice but disregarded it.
"I owe you an apology," he said bluntly.
"For what?"
"Last night. I could n't resist it—I forgot for a moment that you were there. But I—I hope that you 'll believe me to be a gentleman, in spite of it."
She smiled up at him quickly.
"I already have had proof of that. I—I am only hoping that you will believe me—well, that you 'll forget something."
"You mean—"
"Yes," she countered quickly, as though to cut off his explanation. "It seemed like a great deal. Yet it was nothing at all. I would feel much happier if I were sure you had disregarded it."
Fairchild looked at her for a long time, studying her with his serious, blue eyes, wondering about many things, wishing that he knew more of women and their ways. At last he said the thing that he felt, the straightforward outburst of a straightforward man:
"You 're not going to be offended if I tell you something?"