He took her permission for granted, and sat down in a bamboo chair on the veranda, leaning back, and staring up at her with easy insolence.
"I can scarcely believe that you are not lonely here," he remarked. "A figure of speech, I suppose?"
Hope felt the colour rising in her cheeks under his direct and unpleasant scrutiny.
"I have never felt lonely till to-day," she returned, with spirit.
He laughed incredulously. "No?" he said.
"No," said Hope with emphasis. "I often think that there are worse things in the world than solitude."
Something in her tone—its instinctive enmity, its absolute honesty—attracted his attention. He sat up and regarded her very closely.
She was still on her feet—a slender, upright figure in white. She was grasping the back of a chair rather tightly, but she did not shrink from his look, though there was that within her which revolted fiercely as she met it. But he prolonged the silent combat with brutal intention, till at last, in spite of herself, her eyes sank, and she made a slight, unconscious gesture of protest. Then, deliberately and insultingly, he laughed.
"Come now, Miss Carteret," he said, "I'm sure you can't mean to be unfriendly with me. I believe this place gets on your nerves. You're not looking well, you know."
"No?" she responded, with frozen dignity.