Their first greetings were done, and Winnington was sitting by her—astride a chair, his arms lying along the top of it, his eyes looking down upon her, as she made random stitches in what looked like a futurist design.
"Do you know that you wrote me a very, very nice letter?" and as he spoke, she heard in his voice that tone—that lost tone, which she had heard in it at their very first interview, before she had chilled and flouted him, and made his life a burden to him. Her pulses leapt; but she did not look up.
"I wonder whether—you quite deserved it? You were angry with me—for nothing!"
"I am afraid I can't agree!" The voice now was a little dry, and a pair of very keen grey eyes examined her partially hidden face.
She pushed her work away and looked up.
"You ought!" she said vehemently. "You accused me—practically—of flirting with Mr. Lathrop. And I was doing nothing of the kind!"
He laughed.
"I never imagined that you were—or could be—flirting with Mr.
Lathrop."
"Then why did you threaten to give me up if I went on seeing him?"
He hesitated—but said at last—gravely—