“Make friends! Why, I am not your enemy, am I?” said I, laughing.
“Not at present; but you must be careful. Now I will tell you who is my enemy”—and he stooped and looked at the flower at my throat—“the man who gave you that rose.”
I started, and his mouth twitched a little, as if he wanted to smile.
“How do you know it was a man?” I asked, blushing.
“Never mind how I know. I am a magician, and I am not going to give you lessons in the black art for nothing. But look here! I’ll tell you how I know, if you will give it to me in exchange for any flower you like to choose in this place.”
I shook my head.
“I don’t want to exchange it; and I don’t care to have lessons in your black art, thank you.”
“Now that is your nasty pride, Miss Christie. But I suppose one must not expect humility from a lady who wears such diamonds;” and he glanced again at my pendant, as he had done several times while we talked.
“They are not real diamonds,” said I, laughing, and rather pleased for the moment at his mistake. “They are only paste.”
He raised his eyebrows.