This was done in entire silence; Angela urged him to stay no longer. But when he turned, hat in hand, to say good-bye, she stood confronting him again, very near. There was a faint flush on her smooth cheek; her woman's eyes were very bright; her look upon him was sweet, self-conscious, and wistful, oddly appealing. Rarely had he seen her look more girlishly desirable.
"Mr. Garrott, why have you always been different to me since that night—of my bridge-party?"
"Different?" queried Mr. Garrott.
"Oh, you know you have! You know you've never really got over what I said to you—and all that dreadful misunderstanding!"
And he knew then that this nice girl would go to her grave thinking of him as a lover whose confidence in his suit had been reft from him by a too sharp rebuke. Well, so be it. He was content that she should have that satisfaction: let that stand as a further liquidation of the old obligation, a bonus payment on the esteemed Kiss.
"You know you've never forgiven me!"
"I've never had anything to forgive you, Miss Flower."
"Then you've never believed I've forgiven you! I've tried to show you that I have, that I've truly appreciated all the nice things you've done for me—but you've still been different."
It was doubtless his imagination, but she seemed to be a little nearer as she said, with a pink and winsome hesitancy:—
"Can't I make you believe that I—I've really always been the same?"