More than at the greater distance, she looked the sort he liked. Did she like the looks of him? He could not voice the question direct, as in his calculations, with eight ears beside her own to hear. But he concentrated on the silent demand that she try to do so as he crossed to her with hand outstretched.
“I am so glad,” said he, “to see you again.”
Her hand relaxed in his clasp. She rose to her feet; drew up to the full height of her well-poised slenderness. Her expression was neither welcoming nor forbidding; rather was the puzzled, half-ashamed and wholly honest look of a child who can’t remember.
“Didn’t you ask me to come?”
He bent to her with the low-spoken question; met her eyes as seriously as through the lenses a moment since; waited breathlessly for the test of just how fearless and frank was she. With hope he saw a faint flush spread forward from her ears and tinge delightfully her pallor. Already he had felt the agitation of it in her finger-tips. Relief came with her first words.
“Yes, I know I did,” she said.
She knew. Yes, she knew. And she had the courage to say so. She not only looked—she was the sort he liked.
Whether from suggestion of his hand or her own volition, she stepped with him to the back of the box. He did not give her time to deny him, even to himself alone. With inspired assurance he urged:
“I have crossed a continent to meet you. Don’t let your friends see that you failed to recognize me at first. It takes only a moment to know me. Give me that moment.”
“Am I not giving it?” She looked still puzzled, still flushed, still brave. But she withdrew her hand and with it something of her confidence.