"Good morning," she responded cheerily. There was nothing in her voice, her eyes or her manner to indicate an even remotely disturbed state of mind. Her gaze met his serenely; the colour did not rush to her cheeks as he had fondly expected, nor did her eyes waver under the eager, intense gleam in his. He suddenly felt cheated.
"Where are you off to this morning?" he inquired.
"To town for the day. I have some business to attend to and some shopping to do. Would you like to come along?"
He was in a sulky mood.
"You know I hate the very thought of going to town," he said. Then, as she raised her eyebrows slightly, he made haste to add: "I'd go from one end of the desert of Sahara to the other with you, but—" shaking his head so solemnly that she laughed outright,—"not to the city. Just ask me to go to the Sahara with you and see how—"
"Haven't you had enough of No-Man's Land?" she cried merrily.
"It depends on what you'd call No-Man's Land," said he, and her gaze faltered at last. There was no mistaking his meaning. "Sometimes it is Paradise, you know," he went on softly.
Twice before she had seen the same look in his eyes, and both times she had experienced a strange sensation, as of the weakness that comes with ecstasy. There had been something in his eyes that seemed to caress her from head to foot, something that filled her with the most disquieting self-consciousness. Strange to say, it was not the ardent look of the love-sick admirer,—and she had not escaped such tributes,—nor the inquiring look of the adventurous married man. It was not soulful nor was it offensive. She reluctantly confessed to herself that it was warm and penetrating and filled her with a strange, delicious alarm.
She quickly withdrew her gaze and turned to the little window where Mrs. Pollock was making out her receipt for a registered package. She felt that she was cowardly, and the thought made her furious.
"Will it go out today, Mrs. Pollock?" she asked.