She left her hands in his. An odd recklessness was upon her, the recklessness born of despair.
He laughed into her eyes. "Yet you summoned me, most tragic queen of the roses," he said. "You weren't so much as thinking of me, perhaps? Yet subconsciously your spirit cried to mine, and behold--I am here."
He had drawn her close to him, holding her hands against his breast, so that the quick, ardent beat of his heart came to her, sending a curious, half-reluctant thrill through her own.
She looked into his face of mocking subtleties. "No, I wasn't thinking of you, Charlie," she said. "I was thinking of myself, hating the life before me--hating everything!"
The concentrated bitterness of her speech was almost like a challenge. She spoke passionately, as one goaded, not caring what came of it.
Saltash was bending slowly towards her, still laughing, ready to take refuge in a joke if refuge were needed, yet daring also, warily marking his game. "Why don't you think of me--for a change?" he said.
She turned her face swiftly aside. Her lips were suddenly quivering. "No one--not even you--can help me now," she said.
"You are wrong," he answered instantly. "I can help you. It's just what I'm here for."
She glanced at him again. "As a friend, Charlie?" she said.
He bent his dark head over her hands. "Yes, a friend," he said.