"Oh no," Hazel replied rather vaguely. She was trying to screw up her courage to ask that which she had come to ask. Why not out with, it now, whilst his eyes were turned from her? Indeed, if she slipped into that other chair, she would be quite out of his range of vision.
"Mr. Charteris," came a very small voice from somewhere behind him—she had contrived the exchange of seats so quietly that he, intent upon his work, had not noticed the movement—"Mr. Charteris, are you giving—that is, are you in a sort of way—I mean, do you——" Her voice quavered, and she stopped.
Paul wheeled round and stood before her, regarding her in amazement. She looked up at him piteously, and then away again. Paul, half amused, half concerned at the obvious perturbation and perplexity of mind under which she was labouring, waited in silence, a silence fraught with sympathy, for her to continue.
"Oh, could not you turn your back again?" she cried in desperation, "and—and I'll try to tell you."
Paul, with one stride, was beside her and, kneeling upon one knee to bring himself to her level, took both tremulous hands in his.
"What is it, little one?" he asked. "What is this dreadful, 'serious' something you have on your mind?"
"Won't you please to go away or walk about?" she besought him.
But Paul knew that this would be just as difficult for her. "No," he said firmly. "Just tell me, Hazel, and get it over."
"But perhaps it is horrid and—and unladylike of me," she wailed. "Perhaps you will be hurt or offended."
"Tell me," he repeated gently.