Diane started, and, to Tresler’s alarm, looked like fainting; but she recovered at once.
“Nothing,” she said, “only—only I can’t bear to think of that time, and then—then—father strangling you! Don’t think of your dream. Let’s talk of something else.”
Tresler’s alarm abated at once; he laughed softly and leant forward and kissed her.
“Our future—our little home. Eh, dearest?” he suggested tenderly.
She returned his embrace and made a pitiful attempt to smile back into the eyes which looked so eagerly into hers. And now, for the first time, her lover began to understand that there really was something amiss with her. It was that look, so wistful, so appealing, that roused his apprehension. He pressed her to tell him her trouble, until, for sheer misery, she could keep it from him no longer.
“It’s nothing,” she faltered, with trembling lips.
Watching her face with a lover’s jealousy he kept silence, for he knew that her first words were only her woman’s preliminary to something she considered serious.
“Jack,” she said presently, settling all her attention upon her work, “you’ve never asked me anything about myself. Isn’t that unusual? Perhaps you are not interested, or perhaps”—her head bent lower over her work—“you, with your generous heart, are ready to take me on trust. However,” she went on, before he could interrupt her, “I intend to tell you what you refuse to ask. No,” as he leant forward and kissed her again, “now sit up and light your pipe. There are to be no interruptions like that.”
She smiled wistfully and gently pushed him back into his chair.