Sambo sat down opposite her. She was determined not to raise her eyes, but, without doing so, she could see his slender brown hands extended across the table, and the cuffs of his soft blue shirt. She also saw that he was holding a little field daisy. Surely there was nothing in that to touch her heart, yet it did, and the pity that she felt for a passing instant increased her anger. An obstinate and forbidding look came over her face.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Look here! Do you mind if I sit here with you?”
“It’s not for me to dictate to Mrs. Page’s guests.”
“You can dictate to me all you want,” said he. “Nothing I’d like better!”
Again she was conscious that she was behaving ill, and again it strengthened her obstinacy.
“I’ll go away, if you like,” he went on; “but the way you talked to me yesterday—I’ve been thinking so much about it! Please tell me what I’ve done—what has made you change?”
“I haven’t changed,” she answered coldly.
He leaned nearer to her.
“Look here!” he said entreatingly. “Don’t treat me like this! Don’t shut me out! I came down early, just on the chance of seeing you. The others will be down presently, so I only have this little minute. Let me talk to you! You’re so wonderful—no one like you in the world—you and your poetry and your lovely, quiet face! Don’t send me away, dear girl!”
She sprang to her feet.