Her hand touched his. For a moment he snatched his away as though stung. Then he caught her fingers in his and held them as though in a vice. She smiled, the smile of conscious power. The flush of beauty was streaming once more into her face. Poor fellow, he was still in love, then! The fingers which had closed upon hers were burning. What a pity that he was not a little more presentable!
“Yes,” he muttered, “we must be friends, Elizabeth. Wenham had all the luck at first. Perhaps it's going to be my turn now, eh?”
He bent towards her. She laughed into his face for a moment and then was once more suddenly colorless, the smile frozen upon her lips. She began to shiver.
“What is it?” he asked. “What is it, Elizabeth?”
“Nothing,” she faltered, “only I wish—I do wish that you were not so much like Wenham. Sometimes a trick of your voice, the way you hold your head—it terrifies me!”
He laughed oddly.
“You must get used to that, Elizabeth,” he declared. “I can't help being like him, you know. We were great friends always until you came. I wonder why you preferred Wenham.”
“Don't ask me—please don't ask me that,” she begged. “Really, I think he happened to be there just at the moment I felt like making a clean sweep of everything, of leaving New York and every one and starting life again, and I thought Wenham meant it. I thought I should be able to keep him from drinking and to help him start a new life altogether over here or on the Continent.”
“Poor little woman,” he said, “you have been disappointed, I am afraid.”
She sighed.