"I beg your pardon."
"Why should you? You must know by this time that I don't object to being looked at—by you."
If the words were slightly flippant, the tone in which they were spoken was serious enough. She continued: "Your look is that of a man hesitating to leap. When you were a boy you went free at your fences."
Mark caught his breath. Her meaning was unmistakable. She held out white arms to him—the syren!
"They were dear old days," he murmured.
"You rode hard and straight. Many a lead you gave me. When are we going to have a nice long talk?"
Her voice was trembling. And he stammered as he replied: "T-to-night, if you l-l-like."
"It will be heavenly on the terrace," she whispered. "I saw you slip away last night, and I was tempted to follow you."
"Why didn't you?" he blurted out. Last night—he was reflecting—he had been free.
"I have some pride, Mark. Not much, perhaps."