"Are you not going to read that?" he asked, in slow, rather careful English.
Her colour deepened; it rose to her forehead in a burning wave.
"Presently," she returned briefly.
His eyes held hers with a curious insistence.
"You need not be afraid," he said very quietly; "I shall not try to look over."
Nan stared at him, too amazed for speech. The hot blood ebbed from her face as swiftly as it had risen, leaving her as white as the orange-blossoms in her hair.
At length suddenly, with a passionate gesture, she thrust out her hand to him with the ball of paper on her palm.
"Pray take it and read it," she said, her voice quivering with anger, "since it interests you so much."
He made no movement to comply.
"I do not wish to read it, Anne," he said gravely.