“No, no; I mean this red rose.”
“The tint of your cheeks.”
“I hate compliments,” said Helena in a dignified way, trying to release her hand from his warm grasp.
“Always?”
“Yes, always; unless I like the person who pays them.”
“And in this case?”
“I—I—don’t know.”
“Let me read the truth in your eyes.”
She looked up with a pretty gesture of mock despair, but, meeting the tenderness of his look, dropped her eyes in confusion, while Maurice, shifting his seat, slipped his left arm round her slender waist, still holding her hand gently.
“Helena!”