Olga's face remained grave. "No," she said. "I don't feel friendly enough for that."
"I say, what have I done?" said Noel.
She stopped and faced him, and he suddenly saw that she was very nervous. She held out to him a little packet wrapped in tissue-paper.
"Mr. Wyndham," she said, speaking rapidly to cover her agitation, "you couldn't seriously expect me to accept this, whatever your motive for sending it. Please take it back, and let me forget all about it as quickly as possible!"
Noel's hand clasped hers instantly, packet and all. "My dear girl," he said softly, "don't be upset,—but you're making a mistake."
She looked up, meeting the Irish eyes with a tremor of reluctance. In spite of herself, she spoke almost with entreaty. For there was something about him that stirred her very deeply. "Please don't make things hard!" she said. "You know you have no right. I never gave you the smallest reason to imagine I would take such a gift from you."
Noel was still smiling; but there was nothing impudent about his smile. Rather he looked as if he wished to reassure her. "How did you know where it came from?" he said.
The colour she had been so studiously restraining rushed in a wave over her face. "Of course—of course I knew! Besides, there was a line with it."
"May I see the line?" said Noel.
She stared at him, her agitation increasing. What right had he to be so cool and unabashed?