Then as Phil, fearing a trap, still did not answer but just stood staring at her as though she had been a ghost, the girl gave a musical little ripple of laughter and moved closer to him.
“You do not trust me, senor, perhaps,” she said, and Phil flushed as he saw she had read the thought in his mind.
“I—I—,” he began and then stopped short again, absolutely unable to think of a sensible thing to say. He hoped he didn’t look as foolish as he felt.
But the girl had stopped laughing and now she laid a timid hand on Phil’s arm.
“You are tired and ver-ry miserable,” she said with a pretty seriousness. “Will you not sit down on the bench, an’ I will sit on the other end of it so we may talk?”
With a feeling that he must surely be dreaming he did as the girl bid him, watching her incredulously.
Could it be that she was actually friendly to him and was trying to make him understand? In this camp of enemies such a thing seemed impossible.
“Why do you stare at me so,” she reproached him and at the words he drew his eyes away from her, flushing uncomfortably. He must have been staring foolishly.
“I—beg your pardon,” he began and again she laughed that soft little ripple of laughter.
“You are very polite, Americano,” she said, adding demurely as she seated herself and pulled her short skirts down as far as they would go, “But I do not mind, really. It must be much surprise to you that I am here.”