She sat very still, her profile slightly averted, and with one raised hand she held her drifting veil close about her chin. They sat thus in silence a moment, for her mystery embarrassed him. Then (slowly and superbly) over her still averted shoulder she half turned her head toward him.
"Well," she said, "haven't you anything to say for yourself? It's up to you."
Then, nervously, he began to say things, to pay her the barefaced, far from subtle, compliments that had served him once or twice before on similar occasions (if any occasion could be called similar). Addressed to her, they seemed somehow inadequate. He said that, of course, inadequate he knew they were.
"I'm glad you think so," said Miss Lennox.
"I—I said I knew it."
"Oh—the things you know!"
"And the things you know." He grew fervid. "Don't pretend you don't know them. Don't pretend you don't know how a man feels when he looks at you."
"And why should I pretend?"
She had turned round now with her whole body and faced him squarely.
"Why should you? Why should you?"