“I had hoped you would.”
She had his nerves going. There was no doubt of that. He half believed her and half disbelieved. If she had cried, if she had made the smallest effort to work upon his sentiment, he would have disbelieved utterly. But he was not blind to the fact that she was making a brave fight, even though a lie was behind it, and with a consciousness of pride that bewildered him.
She was not humiliating herself. Even when she saw the struggle going on within him she made no effort to turn the balance in her favor. She had stated the facts, as she claimed them to be. Now she waited. Her long lashes glistened a little. But her eyes were clear, and her hair glowed softly, so softly that he would never forget it, as she stood there with her back against the door, nor the strange desire that came to him—even then—to touch it with his hand.
He nipped off the end of his cigar and lighted a match. “It is Rossland,” he said. “You’re afraid of Rossland?”
“In a way, yes; in a large way, no. I would laugh at Rossland if it were not for the other.”
The other! Why the deuce was she so provokingly ambiguous? And she had no intention of explaining. She simply waited for him to decide.
“What other?” he demanded.
“I can not tell you. I don’t want you to hate me. And you would hate me if I told you the truth.”
“Then you confess you are lying,” he suggested brutally.
Even this did not stir her as he had expected it might. It did not anger her or shame her. But she raised a pale hand and a little handkerchief to her eyes, and he turned toward the open port, puffing at his cigar, knowing she was fighting to keep the tears back. And she succeeded.