She stood away from him, shy and equally embarrassed, the blood ebbing and flowing in the pure, soft cheek.
“Won’t you sit down?” she said at last.
“Oh, thank you!” he replied, and took a distant chair.
She sat down behind her type-writer, facing him. There was a silence. She was the first to break it.
“I was so sorry to read you were ill.”
“Oh, it was nothing,” he murmured.
“I am so pleased we hadn’t left—we are sailing next Tuesday. It is so good of you to come and see me, with the many claims that you must have on your time.”
“It is a pleasure to be reminded of old times. I was sorry I missed you the time you called at my house,” he said, awkwardly.
“I was very sorry, too.”
“But you know I work at my studio,” he explained, trying not to flush. “There is no room at home.”