Did some mesmeric rapport tell him in his sleep she was there? Perhaps so, for without noise, or cause, his eyes opened and fixed on Rose's flushed and troubled face. She started away with a confused exclamation, but Stanford, stretching out his arm, caught and held her fast.
"Don't run away, Rose," he said, "How long have you been here? How long have I been asleep?"
"I don't know," said Rose, confusedly: "I came here for a book a moment ago only. Let me go, Mr. Stanford."
"Let you go? Surely not. Come, sit down here beside me, Rose. I have fifty things to say to you."
"You have nothing to say to me—nothing I wish to hear. Please let me go."
"On your dignity again, Rose?" he said, smiling, and mesmerizing her with his dark eyes; "when will you have done wearing your mask?"
"My mask!" Rose echoed, flushing; "what do you mean, Mr. Stanford?"
"Treating me like this! You don't want to leave me now, do you? You don't hate me as much as you pretend. You act very well, my pretty little Rose; but you don't mean it—you know you don't!"
"Will you let me go, Mr. Stanford?" haughtily.
"No, my dear; certainly not. I don't get the chance of tête-à-tête with you so often that I should resign the priceless privilege at a word. We used to be good friends, Rose; why can't we be good friends again?"