Her breath came fast. Her bosom rose and fell rapidly. “You wouldn’t believe me if I did,” she said.
“If you told me you loved me madly,” said Adam, “I should know you didn’t. So please let me go on with my fond delusions.”
She was silent a moment. He could feel her burning gaze on his face. “Adam,” she said presently, “do sit down.” She moved to make half room enough for him on the divan.
“What, and make you stand?” he replied. “Never!”
She placed her hand on the arm of the seat, where she knew his fingers would return when he had finished scratching at a tiny white speck on his coat-lappel. He observed her motion and thrust his fist in his pocket.
“Oh, I am dying,” she presently whispered, after another silence.
“How interesting,” Adam cheerfully commented. “What are you dying for, a glass of water, or a new set of diamonds?”
“You know what I am dying for,” she said, tremulously, in a voice hardly above a whisper. “You said if I were dying, you—you would know what for.”
“Oh, did I?” Adam mused. He was pale behind his calm. His hands were perspiring, coldly. “Yes, of course. I said you would be dying to run away with me. And now you would try to prove that this was all wrong. My dear Lady Margaret, this is unkind.”
She arose from her seat. She was driven to her wits’ end for anything to say.