“Do you know,” she said, “I believe I guessed as much from the first, but I'm afraid Mr. Dawson was too clever for you—as he is for most people. Only then,” she added, wrinkling her brows as though a new point puzzled her, “why are you staying here like this?”
“Can't you guess that too?” he asked hoarsely.
“No,” she said, shaking her head with a frankly puzzled air. “No, I can't. That's puzzled me all the time. Do you know—I think you ought to shave?”
“Why?”
“A beard makes a good disguise,” she answered, “so good it's hardly fair for you to have it when I can't.”
“Perhaps you need it less,” he answered bitterly, “or perhaps no disguise could be so effective as the one you have already.”
“What's that?” she asked.
“Bright eyes, a pretty face, a clear complexion,” he answered.
He spoke with an extreme energy and bitterness that she did not in the least understand, and that quite took away from the words any suspicion of intentional rudeness.
“If I have all that, I suppose it's natural and not a disguise,” she remarked.