Garrett Amherst bowed low.
He was a trifle over the medium height and slender, with black hair just turning gray, and a face that women would call handsome, but that men would call effeminate because too flawless. The eyes had a peculiarly cynical expression about the corners, and the clean-shaven lips, while firm set and classic, were full and red.
"Yes, I!" he answered, and the voice was wondrously low and musical. "I am fortunate indeed to find you alone, Stephanie."
"I cannot say as much, Mr. Amherst!" she scorned.
He laughed lightly. "Time was when you were more than glad when I found you alone."
She glided swiftly toward the bell—but he was before her and blocked the way.
"Don't!" he said gently. "Consider—and don't. You may call—yes, you may even ring for the servants—and what, think you, will be the inference with me—me alone with you here—by appointment?"
"My servants never infer what it is impossible for them to believe!" she spurned. "They know I left you in disgust with myself and loathing for you—you unspeakable poltroon."
He put out his hand as though to stay her.