“Naturally.”
“No; anything but naturally.”
Rhoda said nothing. He waited a moment, then moved to a seat much nearer hers. Her face hardened, and he saw her fingers lock together.
“Where a man is in love, solitude seems to him the most unnatural of conditions.”
“Please don’t make me your confidante, Mr. Barfoot,” Rhoda with well-assumed pleasantry. “I have no taste for that kind of thing.”
“But I can’t help doing so. It is you that I am in love with.”
“I am very sorry to hear it. Happily, the sentiment will not long trouble you.”
He read in her eyes and on her lips a profound agitation. She glanced about the room, and, before he could again speak, had risen to ring the bell.
“You always take coffee, I think?”
Without troubling to give any assent, he moved apart and turned over some books on the table. For full five minutes there was silence. The coffee was brought; he tasted it and put his cup down. Seeing that Rhoda had, as it were, entrenched herself behind the beverage, and would continue to sip at it as long as might be necessary, he went and stood in front of her.