“You are the first woman I ever knew,” I went on, “with whom it was hard for me to get on any sort of terms. I suppose it's my fault. I don't know this game yet. But I'll learn it, if you'll be a little patient; and when I do, I think I'll be able to keep up my end.”
She looked at me—just looked. I couldn't begin to guess what was going on in that gracefully-poised head of hers.
“Will you try to be friends with me?” said I with directness.
She continued to look at me in that same steady, puzzling way.
“Will you?” I repeated.
“I have no choice,” said she slowly.
I flushed. “What does that mean?” I demanded.
She threw a hurried and, it seemed to me, frightened glance toward the drawing-room. “I didn't intend to offend you,” she said in a low voice. “You have been such a good friend to papa—I've no right to feel anything but friendship for you.”
“I'm glad to hear you say that,” said I. And I was; for those words of hers were the first expression of appreciation and gratitude I had ever got from any member of that family which I was holding up from ruin. I put out my hand, and she laid hers in it.
“There isn't anything I wouldn't do to earn your friendship, Miss Anita,” I said, holding her hand tightly, feeling how lifeless it was, yet feeling, too, as if a flaming torch were being borne through me, were lighting a fire in every vein.