“Robert told me that you were an invalid,” was her sympathetic statement.
Zayata nodded solemnly; then smiled. “My arms and hands” — he outstretched them as he spoke — “are well. But I am virtually helpless, otherwise.”
“It is too bad,” commented the girl sadly.
“Too bad?” questioned Zayata. “Not at all — when I can forget. Forget — as I am forgetting now. How could one think of troubles with you in view?”
The girl smiled. There was a sincerity in Zayata’s tone that enabled her to accept his comments without objection.
The exotic atmosphere of this amazing room seemed to have enveloped her. All was new and wonderful even to the odd fragrance of the incense.
Time passed. Margaret found herself talking of many things — of her worries during the past months; of the hopes that she had lost.
The dreary appointments of her uncle’s home seemed miserable. This place was heaven in comparison. She said so, and Henri Zayata smiled.
The girl had no idea how long she had remained. At times she was conscious of Larkin’s presence. The secretary had seated himself at the foot of the couch. But on other occasions, he was gone — she did not know where, and she did not care.
Coming here had seemed an ordeal. Leaving seemed impossible. At length, she noticed Larkin returning. The fact that brought it to her attention was Henri Zayata’s gaze. The man on the divan was looking toward Larkin. Margaret saw the secretary nod slowly.