"Do you know," he went on, "why I did not accept your father's hospitality—that is, why I refused food and drink when I visited your house that night of the concert?"
"I suppose because you were not hungry, and, as you said, you never drink intoxicants," she said, uttering the first answer that came to her lips.
"No, it was not that. I know, too, that my action in refusing his cigars was rude. Even I know enough of your English laws of hospitality for that. I wanted to walk back with you to tell you about this. Shall I tell you?"
"I never thought of rudeness. I thought you meant what you said. Tell me, if you wish."
"I refused because I thought you resented my presence. Forgive me if I misinterpreted your face. You looked as though you were angry with me, and angry at what I said."
"I am exceedingly sorry if any act or look of mine gave pain to a guest in my father's house. Nothing could be further from my wishes. Neither did I interpret your refusal to accept what was offered in that light."
"And yet you grew pale when I refused to take whisky."
Olive was silent.
"I will admit I should have done that under any circumstances," he went on. "There the Mohammedans have much superiority over Christians. Not that I am a Mohammedan—what religion I believe in is Christian; but whisky, no. The depths into which it has dragged so many are too deep. Nevertheless you grew pale as I mentioned it. I wondered why."
Still Olive did not speak. The dead past was rising all around her again, and yet, strange to say, she did not think of Leicester with tenderness. Rather, although the memories associated with him rose thick and fast, he himself receded into the dim distance.