“Just so!” he replied.
“Aren’t you afraid of a paragon, Mr. Harleston?”
“Generally, yes; specifically, no.”
“La! la!” she trilled again. “You’re becoming mystic; which means mysterious, which means diplomatic, which means deception—which warns us to get back to the simple life and have dinner. Want dinner, Mr. Harleston?”
“With you, yes; also breakfast and luncheon daily.”
“You couldn’t do that unless you were my husband,” she replied tantalizingly and adorably.
“I’m perfectly aware of it,” he responded, leaning forward over the back of the chair that separated them.
“But I’m not ready to take a husband, monsieur,” she protested lightly.
“I’m perfectly aware of that also. When you are ready, madame, I am ready too. Until then I’m your good friend—and dinner companion.”
He had spoken jestingly—yet the jest was mainly pretence; the real passion was there and ready the instant he let it control. As for Mrs. Clephane, Harleston did not know. Nor did she herself know—more than that she was quite content to be with him, and let him do for her, assured that he would not misunderstand, nor misinterpret, nor presume. So, across the chair’s back, she held out her hand to him; and he took it, pressed it lightly, but answered never a word.