“Yes. All our thoughts are written on our faces at times, but I try to wear a mask when I can; do you?”
Ralph Webster laughed a low, soft laugh.
“We are forced to hide our thoughts and feelings sometimes,” he said.
“Do you know I could imagine your doing that with a very strong curb,” went on Kathleen Weir, fixing her large gray eyes on Webster’s face. “I can fancy you crushing down your strongest feelings and putting your heel on them allegorically. You have a strong will power.”
“I am not so sure of that.”
“Oh! yes, you have! If you were in love with a woman, and did not mean to tell her so, you would go away from her, and not flutter around the flame like a weaker man would do.”
“Suppose my wings were already singed?” laughed Webster.
“You would bear the pain and still go. I envy your strength.”
“But you are imagining it.”
“No! But here I am forgetting the duties of hospitality to you on your first visit. What will you take; tea, coffee, or some more masculine refreshment. They are standing there in the inner room.” And she pointed to the draped archway between the two small drawing-rooms as she spoke.