“I—don’t—know,” said Jane, half sobbing, but already conscious that she did not desire to confide in Jeffrey Ember.
“But you must know.”
“I don’t.”
With a little gasp Jane let go, and wished ardently that her knees would stop shaking. Ember looked at her very curiously.
Jane had often wondered what his queer cold eyes reminded her of. Curiously enough, it was now, in the midst of her fright, that she knew. They were like pebbles—the greeny-grey ones which lie by the thousand on the seashore. As a rule they were dull and hard, just as the pebbles are dull and hard when they are dry. But sometimes when he was angry, when he cross-questioned you, or when he looked at Lady Heritage the dullness vanished and they looked as the pebbles look when some sudden wave has touched them. Jane did not know when she disliked them most.
They brightened slowly now as they fixed themselves upon her, and Ember said:
“Do you know, I was hoping I might meet you. We haven’t had a real talk since you came.”
“No,” said Jane.
Her manner conveyed no ardent desire for conversation.
“Shall we walk a little?” pursued her companion; “the wind’s cold for standing. I really do want to talk to you.”