“I have not forgotten your tastes, you see,” he said, smiling.
“I do smoke,” she admitted. “But”—the confession came with a rush, and she did not quite know what impelled her to make it—“I smoked—that day in the train—out of sheer defiance.”
“I was sure of it,” he responded in amused tones. “But now”—striking a match and holding it for her to light her cigarette—“you will smoke because you really like it, and because it would be a friendly action and condone the fact that you are being held a prisoner against your will.”
Sara smiled.
“It is a very charming prison,” she said, contemplating the harmony of the room with satisfied eyes.
“You like it?” he asked eagerly.
She looked at him in surprise. What could it matter to him whether she liked it or not?
“Why, of course, I like it,” she replied. “Who wouldn't? You see,” she added a little wistfully, “I have no home of my own now, so I have to enjoy other people's.”
“I have no home, either,” he said shortly.
“But—but this——”