“Certainly not. What are you going to do about it?”
“What can I do? I can only say this: I'm glad Captain Trigger's opinion of me is based on my ability to reason with an ignorant mob and not on my power to intimidate a couple of very intelligent young women.”
“I wouldn't have missed it for worlds,” she said coolly. She looked up into his eyes, a slight frown puckering her brow. “Do you know, Madame Obosky had the impertinence to say that you would have turned tail and fled if those people had shown fight.”
He grinned. “She's an amazing person, isn't she? Wonderful faculty for sizing the most of us up.”
“You would have run?”
“Like a rabbit,” he answered, unabashed. “That's a little too tight, I think, Miss Clinton. Would you mind loosening it up a bit?”
“Oh, I'm sorry. Is that better? Now the other one, please.”
“Yes, I'm an awful coward,” he said, after a long silence.
She looked up quickly. Something in his eyes brought a faint flush to her cheek. For a second or two she met his gaze steadily and then her eyes fell, but not before he had caught the shy, wondering expression that suddenly filled them. He experienced an almost uncontrollable desire to lay his clumsy hand upon the soft, smooth brown hair. Through his mind flashed a queer rush of comparison. He recalled the dark, knowing eyes of the Russian dancer, mysterious and seductive,—man-reading eyes from which nothing was concealed,—and contrasted them with the clear, honest, blue-grey orbs that still could fall in sweet confusion. His heart began to pound furiously, he felt a queer tightening of the throat. He was afraid to trust his voice. How white and soft and gentle were her hands,—and how beautiful they were.
Suddenly she stroked the bandaged hand,—as an amiable manicurist might have done—and arose.