Gila raved all the way home. Courtland, for the most part, let her talk and was silent.
Seated finally in the library, for he could not go away yet, somehow. There was something he must ask her. He turned to her, calling her for the first time by her name:
"But, Gila, you said you felt a Presence. What did you mean?"
Gila was silent. The tumult in her face subsided.
She dropped her lashes and played with the frill on the wrist of the long chiffon sleeve of her blouse. Her eyes beneath their concealing lashes kindled. Her mouth grew sweet and sensitive, her whole attitude became shy and alluring. She sat and drooped before the fire, casting now and then a wide, shy, innocent look up, her face half turned away.
"Does she look adown her apron!" floated the words through his brain. Ah! Here at last was the Gila he had been seeking! The Gila who would understand!
"Tell me, Gila!" he said, in an eager, low appeal.
She stirred softly, drooped a little more toward him, her face turned away till only the charming profile showed against the rich darkness of a crimson curtain. Now at last he was coming to it!
"It was—you—I meant!" she breathed softly.
He sat up sharply. There was subtle flattery in her tone. He could not fail to be stirred by it.