The honesty of her admiration for him flattered him as he never before had been flattered. Such naïve, such ardent adoration quite upset his mental balance, and slightly intoxicated him.
Nothing ever had so appealed, so moved this sophisticated young man. And, add the girl’s beauty, and nascent talent to that, the total was too much for him—might have been too much for older and more level heads than Barry Annan’s.
“Thursday,” he whispered, as she slowly released her hand from his—freed it with a sort of winning reluctance.
“Yes,” she breathed, “at seven.”
“And many, many other hours together,” he added fervently.
“Oh, I hope so.... Thank you, Mr. Annan.”
Sitting in silence there he had a confused idea that never had he encountered a feminine mind so utterly purged of material sentiment.
“It behooves me to keep my own brain as clear,” he thought, vaguely,—seeming to realise that it was no longer entirely so.
Suddenly the drone of the machine ceased; the lights went on; the screen faded.
All around him people stirred, rose, turned to exchange impressions, congratulations.