He, too, flushed, his eyes held a moment by hers. Then he, somewhat brusquely, disengaged himself.
"Why, I did nothing! He was in no danger; the guide would have had him out in a twinkle. I wish"--he frowned--"you wouldn't look so done up over it."
"Oh! I am all right."
"I brought you a book this morning. Mercifully I left it in the drawing-room, so it hasn't been in the lake."
He drew it from his pocket. It was a French novel she had expressed a wish to read.
She exclaimed,
"How did you get it?"
"I found Mariette had it with him. He sends it me from Vancouver. Will you promise to read it--and rest?"
He drew a sofa towards the window. The June sunset was blazing on the glacier without. Would he next offer to put a shawl over her, and tuck her up? She retreated hastily to the writing-table, one hand upon it. He saw the lines of her gray dress, her small neck and head; the Quakerish smoothness of her brown hair, against the light. The little figure was grace, refinement, embodied. But it was a grace that implied an environment--the cosmopolitan, luxurious environment, in which such women naturally move.
His look clouded. He said a hasty good-bye and departed. Elizabeth was left breathing quick, one hand on her breast. It was as though she had escaped something--or missed something.