"Soothing and stimulating, eh?" she asked, as she put the flowers on the table and gave him her hand—no, she suddenly gave him both hands with a rush of old-time friendship, which robbed it of all personal emotion.
For a moment he held her hands. He felt them tremble in his warm clasp, the delicate, shivering pulsation of youth, the womanly feeling. It was for an instant only, because she withdrew her fingers. Then she caught up an apple from the dish she had brought in, and tossed it to him.
"For a good boy," she said. "You have been a good boy, haven't you?"
"I think so, chiefly by remembering a good girl."
"That's a pretty compliment—meant for me?"
"Yes, meant for you. I think you understand me better than anyone else."
He noticed her forehead wrinkle slightly, and a faint, incredulous smile come to her lips.
"I shouldn't think I understand you, Carnac," she said, over her shoulder, as she arranged dishes on the sideboard. "I shouldn't think I know you well. There's no Book of Revelations of your life except in your face."
She suddenly turned full on him, and held his eyes. "Carnac, I think your face looks honest. I've always thought so, and yet I think you're something of a scamp, a rogue and a thief."
There was determination at her lips, through which, though only slightly apart, her beautiful teeth, so straight, so regular, showed. "You don't play fair. What's the good of having a friend if you don't tell your friend your troubles? And you've been in trouble, Carnac, and you're fighting it through alone. Is that wise? You ought to tell some bad man, or some good woman—if they're both clever—what's vexing you.