"I'm sorry," he said uncomfortably—"awfully sorry, truly. But you—I'm not afraid you won't make good, and I don't intend to let you go until you've had every chance in the world. That's a promise."
He ventured to give her quaking shoulder a light, encouraging pat or two, and rested his hand upon the corner of the table.
"Come, now—brace up—please. I—"
With a strangled sob Joan sat up, caught his hand and carried it to her lips. Before he could recover from his astonishment it was damp with her tears and kisses.
Instantly he snatched it away.
"You—you're so good to me!" she cried.
Matthias, horrified, stepped back a pace or two, as if to insure himself against a repetition of her offence, and quite mechanically dried his hand with a handkerchief. And then, in a flash, he lost his temper.
"What the devil do you mean by doing that to me?" he demanded harshly. "Look here—you stop this nonsense. I won't have it. I—why—it's outrageous! What right have you got to—to do anything like that?"
The shock of his anger brought the girl to her senses. Her tears ceased in an instant, as if automatically. She rose, mopping her face with her handkerchief, swallowed one last sob, and moved sullenly toward the door.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I—you've been very kind to me—I forgot myself. I'm sorry."