But it was not until after supper that George had his first opportunity to speak to her alone. The old merchant had mentioned an ingenious method that he had hit upon for packing breakable articles, and had carried the two officers into another room to demonstrate it to them. The spring storm was still raging; the flare of the lightning every now and then dimmed the drawing-room candles; the wind continued to beat up from the bay with fury.
The girl was in a deep window-seat, looking out upon the storm; the night was inky, but the flare of the lightning was so incessant as to afford an almost continuous view. George leaned back against a carved table, and as he trifled with the stems of some roses which he had found thereon, he watched her reflectively.
“I’ve been thinking,” said he, at last, “that perhaps I may have been wrong.”
She did not even turn her head, but went on gazing steadily into the rain-drenched Crown Street.
“Perhaps,” proceeded George, “the judgments which one is led to believe are quickly made are really arrived at after some thought. It is even possible that your estimate of me came after due deliberation.”
At this she turned, as he felt sure she would. The lightning glared in at the window behind her; but the flash of her eyes was the quickest to reach him.
“It is strange,” she said, “that you go on holding this attitude when you must know that I am not to be deceived. I did not require to deliberate; your acts were all that were necessary to make up my mind concerning you.”
A gleam of satisfaction came into his eyes.
“Ah!” He threw the roses back upon the table and studied her closely. “That is it, then?—my acts? Thank you. At last we have come to something specific.
“If you will point out anything that I have done since I came to New York, which I cannot successfully defend,” continued he, “I shall be willing to have you think what you choose of me.”