"There is nothing to forgive—you had a right"—she said, incoherently. "If there was—and mind, I do not admit there was—I forgive you freely."
"Thank you. And you will come?"
"Sometimes—perhaps," she stammered.
He pulled at his dark mustache impatiently.
"I must have a more definite promise than that," he said. "I am used to having my way about everything."
Though the words were arrogant, the tone was kind. He was thoroughly in earnest. She hesitated. She did not want to be drawn into such a promise, standing too much in awe of the stately master of Eden.
"You will not promise," he said, piqued. "Very well. But you are the first woman who ever refused a request of St. Leon Le Roy's. Your forgiveness was only half hearted."
He was more vexed than she knew. His wonderful condescension had not borne the fruit he expected. He leaned back in his chair with his elbow on the table, and pulled at his dark mustache with his shapely fingers, the costly diamond on his hand flashing luridly.
"What a stubborn little mite it is to refuse to humor me," he thought to himself in displeasure.