Under the tonic stimulus of his flattery, Joan recovered her self-possession with surprising readiness—so swiftly that she almost forgot to cover the phenomenon with prolonged evidences of pretty confusion.
She looked down, her colour high, and smiling traced with a gloved forefinger an invisible seam in her skirt; and then, looking up shyly, she appraised Marbridge with one quick, shrewd, masked glance.
Her instinct had not misled her: this man esteemed her at a high value.
"It's awf'ly kind of you to say so," she murmured demurely.
Marbridge bent forward, leaning on the desk, his gaze ardent.
"I only say what I think, Miss Thursday. I watched you act that afternoon—and so far as I was concerned, you were the whole sketch!—and made up my mind then and there you were a girl with a great big future."
"Oh, but really, Mr. Marbridge—"
"Give you my word! I said to myself then and there: 'Here's a little woman worth watching, and if ever I get a chance to lend her a helping hand and don't do it, I'd better quit fussing with this theatrical game.' And that was the effect of seeing you play just once, mind you!"
"I'm afraid you're a dreadful kidder, Mr. Marbridge."
His injured look was eloquent of the injustice that she did him.