It was as if there lay a way through her soft brown eyes of momentarily escaping from himself.
She leaned against the wall, he watching her; one little hand rested on the paneling beside her, her white throat showed through the open collar; her thick, dull hair cast trembling shadows on her cheeks, he thought it a pretty color and was gloomily pleased that he could still admire the tint of a woman’s hair.
“Delia,” he said quietly.
She looked up, to hear this man speak her name was like seeing it flash written in stars across the sky; she shrank under it abashed and lifted timid eyes that to his bitter wretchedness seemed soft as a caress.
He smiled.
“How little you know of me!” he said.
She found slow words to answer him.
“We have one creed, one King, one aim,” she said. “I desire to know no more of you, sir.”
“Delia,” his voice fell very musically low. “If you knew more of me—say, if we had known each other years—would you find it possible to care for me?”
She stared, dumb and scarlet, the terror in her questioning eyes was the finest compliment ever paid him: he smiled again with his curious Puritanical haughtiness as if even while he led her on, he despised himself and her.