“If I only dared tell her now,” said Frost to himself, “but it’s not my affair.”
He saw the feminine droop of her head, and the dainty curve of her beautiful arm.
“She is about to weep,” he muttered.
Miss Baxter, who had been amusing herself with other revelers, turned to interrupt: “Mr. Frost, you haven’t given him dead away?”
This, so recklessly spoken, only added to Cherokee’s discomfort. A flush rose to her cheek. She asked, with partial scorn:
“Do you think he should have aroused my interest without satisfying it?”
“Please forgive him, he didn’t intend to be so rude; besides, he would have told you had I not interrupted. It was thoughtless of you to make mention of it,” she said, reproachfully, to the artist.
The while he seemed oddly enjoying the girl’s strange dry-eyed sorrow.
Just here, Fred Stanhope came up to tell them the evening pleasures were done. Cherokee could have told him that sometime before.