Her gaze dropped. And as she hid herself she looked once more almost as insignificant and colorless as he had once believed her to be.
"What are you thinking about?"
She shook her head slowly without raising her eyes or emerging from the deep recess of her reserve.
"You are a mystery to me. I can't decide whether you are very innocent or very—concealing."
She glanced inquiringly at him. "I don't understand," she said.
He smiled. "No more do I. I've seen so much of faking—in women as well as in men—that it's hard for me to believe anyone is genuine."
"Do you think I am trying to deceive you? About what?"
He made an impatient gesture—impatience with his credulity where she was concerned. "No matter. I want to make you happy—because I want you to make me happy."
Her eyes became as grave as a wondering child's. "You are laughing at me," she said.
"Why do you say that?"