“Very good, Miss,” Burrill replied, and with impressive civility he prepared to leave the room. Tembarom glanced at the tea-things.
“There's only one cup here,” he said. “Bring one for me.”
Burrill's expression might perhaps have been said to start slightly.
“Very good, sir,” he said, and made his exit. Miss Alicia was fluttering again.
“That cup was really for you, Mr. Temple Barholm,” she ventured.
“Well, now it's for you, and I've let him know it,” replied Tembarom.
“Oh, PLEASE,” she said in an outburst of feeling—“PLEASE let me tell you how GRATEFUL—how grateful I am!”
But he would not let her.
“If you do,” he said, “I'll tell you how grateful I am, and that'll be worse. No, that's all fixed up between us. It goes. We won't say any more about it.”
He took the whole situation in that way, as though he was assuming no responsibility which was not the simple, inevitable result of their drifting across each other—as though it was only what any man would have done, even as though she was a sort of delightful, unexpected happening. He turned to the tray.