She looked down as if disconcerted by his honest, perplexed, questioning eyes.
"I was afraid you might, after—after what's happened—"
He fumbled for a cigarette, beginning to feel more calm, less nervous than annoyed. The fact of her unruffled self-possession had at length penetrated his understanding.
"No," he said slowly, rolling the cigarette between his palms, "I don't mind in the least, if I can be of service to you."
"But I was very foolish," Joan persisted, "and—and unkind. I've been sorry ever since...."
"Don't be," Matthias begged, his tone so odd that she looked up swiftly and coloured.
Thus far everything had gone famously, quite as rehearsed in the theatre of her optimistic fancy; but the new accent in his voice made her suddenly fear lest, after all, the little scene might not play itself out as smoothly as it had promised to.
"Don't be," Matthias repeated coolly. "It's quite all right. Take my word for it: as far as I'm concerned you've nothing at all to reproach yourself with."
Her flush deepened. "You mean you didn't care—!"
Matthias smiled, but not unkindly. "I mean," he said slowly—"neither of us really cared."