"Could you, if you wanted to?"
"Oh, I think I might show you a few things. I have my ideas—most women have, you know. Perhaps I'm not quite so cold as you think." She shut her eyes a moment and trembled. "But there's plenty of time."
He let that go, gazing with curiosity at the spots of red on her cheeks. It was not a blush; the color was sustained. She never looked at him steadily, giving him only a flashing glance, now and again. Her nostrils were expanded, her head was held majestically erect. There was, indeed, plenty of time for him, and he took it coolly. He betrayed still a puzzled interest—that of a hunter whose quarry was fluttering so that he could not get in his shot.
"You're looking very beautiful, to-day, Cly."
"To-day?" She emphasized the word.
He laughed. "That's the time I put the mucilage brush in the ink-bottle! Queer how hard it is to give a girl a compliment that she'll accept."
"I beg pardon—it was ungracious of me. Try me again."
"No, I was clumsy. But compliments aren't my business. I'm not a palmist, you see."
Again she drew back her head with a shake. "I think I told you that Mr. Granthope is my friend?" Her voice trembled a little.
She walked to the fireplace and stood there, leaning her back against the mantel, tapping her heel against the fender.