“Why?” he asked.
“I cannot tell you,” she answered; “it was an impulse. I thought nothing of accepting the man’s invitation. You know him, I daresay. He is a millionaire, and it is his money which supports the theatre. He has asked me several times, and although personally I dislike him, he has, of course, a certain claim upon my acquaintance. I have made excuses once or twice. Last night was the first time I have ever been out anywhere with him. I do not of course pretend to be in the least conventional—I have always permitted myself the utmost liberty of action. Yet—I had wanted so much to know you—I was afraid of prejudicing you.... After all, you see, I have no explanation. It was just an impulse. I have hated myself for it; but it is done!”
“It was,” he said, “a trifle of no importance. We will forget it.”
A gleam of gratitude shone in her dark eyes. Her head drooped a little. He fancied that her voice was not quite so steady.
“It is good,” she said, “to hear you say that.”
He looked around the room, and back into her face. Some dim foreknowledge of what was to come between them seemed to flash before his eyes. It was like a sudden glimpse into that unseen world so close at hand, in which he—that Roman noble—had at any rate implicitly believed. There was a faint smile upon his face as his eyes met hers.
“At least,” he said, “I shall be able to come and talk with you now at the railing, instead of watching you from my chair. For you were quite right in what you said just now. I have watched for you every day—for many days.”
“You will be able to come,” she said gravely, “if you care to. You mix so little with the men who love to talk scandal of a woman, that you may never have heard them—talk of me. But they do, I know! I hear all about it—it used to amuse me! You have the reputation of ultra exclusiveness! If you and I are known to be friends, you may have to risk losing it.”
His brows were slightly contracted, and he had half closed his eyes—a habit of his when anything was said which offended his taste.