“Sometimes. I do now.”
“Why?”
“Because I can talk better and be less afraid of you.”
“Vere! What nonsense! You are incapable of fear.”
She laughed, but the laugh sounded serious, he thought.
“Real fear—perhaps. But you don’t know”—she paused—“you don’t know how I respect you.”
There was a slight pressure on the last words.
“For all you’ve done, what you are. I never felt it as I have just lately, since—since—you know.”
Artois was conscious of a movement of his blood.
“I should be a liar if I said I am not pleased. Tell me about the work, Vere—now we are in the dark.”