“You are polite, aren't you? It's funny; I can't tell whether I'm glad to see you. I had a bad time, you know; and Mrs. Fiorsen was an angel. Why do you come to see me now?”
Exactly! Why had he come? The thought flashed through him: 'She'll help me to forget.' And he said:
“I was a great brute to you, Daphne. I came to make up, if I can.”
“Oh, no; you can't make up—thank you!” A shudder ran through her, and she began drawing on her gloves. “You taught me a lot, you know. I ought to be quite grateful. Oh, you've grown a little beard! D'you think that improves you? It makes you look rather like Mephistopheles, I think.”
Fiorsen stared fixedly at that perfectly shaped face, where a faint, underdone pink mingled with the fairness of the skin. Was she mocking him? Impossible! She looked too matter of fact.
“Where do you live now?” he said.
“I'm on my own, in a studio. You can come and see it, if you like.”
“With pleasure.”
“Only, you'd better understand. I've had enough of love.”
Fiorsen grinned.