Their chairs were close together; he suddenly felt the perfume of her hair and the touch of her fingers upon his hand. Her face was quite close to his.
“At least,” she murmured, “I pray that I may never lose your friendship.”
“If only I could ensure you as confidently the fulfilment of all your desires,” he answered, “you would be a very happy woman. I am too lonely a man, Berenice, to part with any of my few joys. Whether you change or no, you must never change towards me.”
She was silent. There were no signs left of the brilliant levity which had made their little luncheon pass off so successfully. She sat with her head resting upon her elbow, gazing steadily up at the little white clouds which floated over the housetops. A tea equipage was brought out and deftly arranged between them.
“To-day,” Matravers said, “I am going to have the luxury of having my tea made for me. Please come back from dreamland and realize the Englishman’s idyll of domesticity.”
She turned in her chair, and smiled upon him.
“I can do it,” she assured him. “I believe you doubt my ability, but you need not.”
They talked lightly for some time—an art which Matravers found himself to be acquiring with wonderful facility. Then there was a pause. When she spoke again, it was in an altogether different tone.
