There was a little silence between them. Then Le Moyne spoke briskly:—
“I'll tell you how to get there; perhaps I would better write it.”
He moved over to Christine's small writing-table and, seating himself, proceeded to write out the directions for reaching Hillfoot.
Behind him, Christine had taken his place on the hearth-rug and stood watching his head in the light of the desk-lamp. “What a strong, quiet face it is,” she thought. Why did she get the impression of such a tremendous reserve power in this man who was a clerk, and a clerk only? Behind him she made a quick, unconscious gesture of appeal, both hands out for an instant. She dropped them guiltily as K. rose with the paper in his hand.
“I've drawn a sort of map of the roads,” he began. “You see, this—”
Christine was looking, not at the paper, but up at him.
“I wonder if you know, K.,” she said, “what a lucky woman the woman will be who marries you?”
He laughed good-humoredly.
“I wonder how long I could hypnotize her into thinking that.”
He was still holding out the paper.