She was looking again at the roses. She made no reply. The cold, rosy loveliness of her enthralled and chilled him. Where the chestnut hair touched her cheek a carnation flush warmed the slight shadow.
“I’ll resume work,” he said abruptly.
She nodded, her face close to the roses.
“How would you like me to make a scenario of my last novel for you?” he asked. He had prepared this surprise during the two days’ separation—had even visualised her delight.
If he expected emotional response, the impulsive gratitude that hitherto had so charmingly over-valued his little gifts, he was to be stunningly disappointed.
She turned and looked at him out of frankly troubled eyes; and from that moment he learned that whatever he ever was to have from this girl would be only what her honesty could offer.
“I couldn’t play such a part,” she said.... “You are most kind.... But I never could be able to do it.”
“Why? Do you think it would prove too difficult?”
“Yes, ... too difficult ... because I don’t believe in such a part—or in such a character.”
He sat thunderstruck. Then he flushed to the temples and the last rag of masculine condescension fell from him, leaving him boyishly bewildered and chagrined.