“Everything shall be as you wish—everything forgotten—I will think of nothing but how to make you happy—”
“And I may have my letters?”
He nodded, swallowing hard, as if the concession well-nigh choked him.
Under his gloating gaze her flesh crawled. Only by supreme effort did she succeed in resisting a mad impulse to risk a rush for door or windows, and whipped her will into maintaining what seemed to be frank response.
“Very well,” she said; “I agree.”
Again he offered to touch her, again she moved slightly, eluding him.
“No,” she stipulated with an arch glance—“not yet! First prove you mean to make good your word.”
“How?”
“Let me go—with my letters—and call on me to-morrow.”
His look clouded. “Can I trust you?” He was putting the question to himself more than to her. “Dare I?” He added in a tone colourless and flat: “I’ve half a mind to take you at your word. Only—forgive my doubts—appearances are against you—you seem almost too keen for the bargain. How can I know—?”