Nina would not tell him, and he bent his head to conceal the quick, gratified flush that overspread his face.
“What time is it?” asked the girl, rising. “I must go to bed.”
“Not late,” he answered, idly, snapping the shabby silver case of his watch.
“Tell me exactly.”
“Half-past eight.”
“Oh, it must be later; I believe it is later,” and she came and looked over his shoulder. “Story-teller! it is half-past nine. Please hand me my cloak.”
He watched with the utmost interest her transformation from a damsel clad in a sober travelling suit to the gayest, most vivid of Red Riding Hoods. Then he said, with sober admiration: “You would not have that lily and rose complexion, Nina, if it were not for your early hours.”
Annoyed by the broadness of his compliment and the mention of her Christian name, that she suddenly considered a breach of compact, she flashed him an indignant, remonstrating glance, while tying the ribbons of her cape.
“May I assist you?” he asked, coming toward her.
Her mouth opened to refuse his offer, but he closed it by stooping down and lightly imprinting a kiss on her lips. Her first sentiment was one of unmitigated wonder. Then stepping back against the wall, she stared at him in anger complete and undisguised.