He looked as helpless as he was.
"Won't you smoke—please?" she asked, after a brief silence.
He took a cigarette from the box on the table, in mechanical obedience. As he was lighting it, he felt that to smoke would somehow be a concession. He tossed the cigarette into the fire. "You simply can't stay here," he cried.
"I simply can't go," she replied, "until I am warm."
In his nervousness he forgot, lit a cigarette, felt he would look absurd if he threw it away, continued to smoke—sullen, impatient.
"Ever since you left, yesterday," she went on, "I've been thinking of what you said, or, rather, of how you said it. And to-night, sitting there with the Morrises, I saw through your pretenses."
He turned upon her to make rude denial. But her eyes stopped him, made him turn hastily away in confusion; for they gave him a sense that she had been reading his inmost thoughts.
"Horace," she said, "you came to say good-by."
"Ridiculous," he scoffed, red and awkward.
"Horace, look at me."