"Why, yes. Do not many admirers of your works express their pleasure in them to you?"
He studied her lovely face coolly and in detail—the dainty arch of the questioning eyebrows, the sensitive curve of the mouth, the clear, sweet eyes. Could it be possible that such candour masked irony? Could all this be the very essence[91] of the art of acting, concealing the most murderous sarcasm ever dreamed of by a terrified author?
And suddenly his face went red all over, and he understood that the essence of this young girl was a candour so utterly free of self-consciousness—a frankness so absolutely truthful, that the simplicity of her had been a miracle too exquisite for him to comprehend.
"You do like what I write!" he exclaimed.
Her blue eyes widened: "Of course I do," she said, amazed. "Didn't you understand me?"
"No," he said, cooling his burning face in the rising sea-wind. "I thought you were laughing at me."
"I'm sorry if I was stupid," she said.
"I was stupid."
"You!" She laughed a little.
The sinking sun peered through the palm forest behind them and flung a beam of blinding light at her.