“I shall not easily forget to-night,” he said rather low, drawing a chair up beside her.
“You liked it, then?” she asked hesitatingly—almost shyly.
“‘Like’ is hardly the word.”
Magda flashed him a swift glance.
“And yet,” she said slowly, “I’m the ‘type of woman you hate.’”
“You make it rather difficult to maintain the point of view,” he admitted.
She was silent a moment.
“You were very unkind to me that day,” she said at last.
Their eyes met and in hers was something soft and dangerously disarming. Quarrington got up suddenly from his chair.
“Perhaps I was unkind to you so that I might not be unkind to myself,” he replied curtly.