"No, I brought a friend. A gentleman. I used to know him when I was a child."
Ronnie looked at her searchingly. His eyes were soft and kind.
"Evie, I will tell you something. From the day I first met you I intended no good to you. When I arranged that we should go to Italy, to Palermo, I knew in my wicked mind that you would grow tired of me."
He put it that way, though he was loath to tell even so small a lie.
"Since—since I saw you last, I have been thinking of you, thinking very tenderly of you, Evie. I have always liked you; Christina and I have discussed you by the hour—"
"But you have never seen Christina until this week, Ronnie!"
Ronnie's hand went to his chin.
"Haven't I?" He was troubled. "I thought—let me say I have dreamed of these discussions. I dream a great deal nowadays. Queer ugly dreams. I woke this morning when the clock was striking nine—I felt so sad."
He seemed to forget her presence, for he did not speak for a time. He had seated himself on the edge of the desk, one polished boot swinging, and he was looking past her with an intensity of gaze that made her turn to see the thing that attracted him.
Her movement roused him, and he stammered his apologies.