"The library? And the books are all there—aren't they?" she asked, with a note of keen yearning in her voice.
"Yes; do you like books?" he asked, curiously.
"I love them," she answered, discarding the word "like" as she had done about the flowers. There was no half way strain in her nature. Fervent, ardent, impetuous, the word was too cold for her.
Those things that pleased her she loved.
"Then, perhaps I will lend you some books sometimes, if you will only keep out of my sanctum," he said, coolly. "Do you promise?"
"Yes, I promise," she replied, with a gentle, smothered sigh.
Then suddenly she lifted her eyes and asked him the last question he would have expected to hear from a girl nurtured in the lap of wealth and luxury.
"Mr. Le Roy, if you were a girl like I am—and if you hadn't any parents, nor home, nor friends—nor any money—nor any practical education—what would you do to earn an honest living?"
There was a palpable anxiety in voice and face. She had grown very pale, her dark eyes were distinctly wistful.
"She is thinking of that obnoxious lover. She would even dare poverty for his sake," he said to himself in displeasure.