"I hope so—but," with a most enticing look, "one dare not take too much for granted."
"You could not, take too much," he replied, raising his hand in a gesture. When it came down it rested on hers.
She felt him start, slightly, but he let his hand remain, and she, for her part, did not seem to notice.
It was a soft hand, and a small, with a faint perfume about it, with delicate fingers and slender wrist.—His own still lingered, hers was not withdrawn. Lightly he pressed it—no answer, save in silence. He knew now that she was drawing him on—would not rebuke him, unless he went too far. His fingers closed over hers in an unmistakable caress. She did not reprove him; instead, she gazed across the drawing-room, a dreamy light in her eyes.
"So you are going away, to-morrow," he said, his voice sinking lower than usual.
"Yes," she replied, "yes, to-morrow."
"I am sorry—very sorry—a little longer, and we might have been better friends."
"It is not my fault, monsieur, that we are not better—friends," she answered, her look still distant.
"Nor mine," he said.
She turned her eyes upon his face, with calm sincerity.