"Then I will smooth your hair," and I climbed up behind her and began to run over her forehead with the tips of my fingers.
"You are really a pet, snake-girl," she said, "and you can't help it."
"I can't help what?"
"Being a witch. I knew you would hurt me when I first saw you, and I tried to protect myself by being kind to you."
"Oh, dear Lady Ver!" I said, deeply moved. "I would not hurt you for the world, and indeed you misjudge me. I have kept the bargain to the very letter—and spirit."
"Yes, I know you have to the letter, at least, but why did Robert go out of the box last night?" she demanded, wearily.
"He said he had got a chill, did not he?" I replied, lamely. She clasped her hands passionately.
"A chill! You don't know Robert. He never had a chill in his life," she said. "Oh, he is the dearest, dearest being in the world. He makes me believe in good and all things honest. He isn't vicious, and isn't a prig, and he knows the world, and he lives in its ways like the rest of us, and yet he doesn't begin by thinking every woman is fair game and undermining what little self-respect she may have left to her."
"Yes," I said. I found nothing else to say.
"If I had had a husband like that I would never have yawned," she went on; "and besides, Robert is too masterful and would be too jealous to let one divert one's self with another."