Magda lifted her long white lids and met his glance.
“Why should I?” she asked lazily.
He shrugged his shoulders with apparent unconcern.
“No reason in the world—unless you feel inclined to do a good turn.”
His indifference was maddening.
“I don’t make a habit of doing good turns,” she retorted sharply.
“So I should imagine.”
The contemptuous edge to his voice roused her to indignation. As always, she found herself stung to the quick by the man’s coolly critical attitude towards her. She was back once more in the atmosphere of their first meeting on the day he had come to her assistance in the fog. It seemed almost incredible that all that followed had ever taken place—incredible that he had ever cared for her or taught her to care for him. At least he was making it very clear to her now that he intended to cut those intervening memories out of his life.
It was a sheer challenge to her femininity, and everything that was woman in her rose to meet it.
She smiled across at him engagingly.