“Yes, I am,” he replied, shortly.
“Oh, but I am sure you are not. Your face is flushed and your eyes look feverish.”
“Never mind my eyes,” he replied, going to the piano and opening her book. “This is your lesson, I believe.”
She looked chagrined and hurt, but proceeded to play at this very decided hint. She secretly took notice of one thing, however. Karl’s few words were spoken in good English, unimpaired by his habitual German accent. This phenomenon had occurred once or twice before, and had not been lost upon her.
After playing a few bars, she suddenly stopped and said:
“Mr. Zikoff, I have long been wanting to tell you of something—to make a confession, and ask you whether a certain act I committed was right or wrong.”
“Miss Heath, why should you ask me to pronounce judgment on your acts?”
“Please let me tell my story,” she said, imperatively; and then, with mildness, “I have confidence in you—I value your good opinion more than—I value it very highly. It is about Carlos Conrad——”
“Who?”
Karl sprang to his feet.