"How did you guess it!" she exclaimed, vexed. "I—it's too bad for you to know everything, Mr. Seabury."
"I thought you were convinced that I didn't know anything?" he said, looking up at her. His voice was quiet—too quiet; his face grave, unsmiling, firm.
"I? Mr. Seabury, I don't understand you."
He folded his hands and rested his chin on the knuckles. "But I understand you, Miss Gay. Tell me"—the odd smile flickered and went out—"Tell me, in whose house am I?"
Sheer shame paralyzed her; wave on wave of it crimsoned her to the hair. She sat there in deathly silence; he coolly lighted another cigarette, dropped one elbow on his knee, propping his chin in his open palm.
"I'm curious to know—if you don't mind," he added pleasantly.
"Oh—h!" she breathed, covering her eyes suddenly with both hands. She pressed the lids for a moment steadily, then her hands fell to her lap, and she faced him, cheeks aflame.
"I—I have no excuse," she stammered—"nothing to say for myself ... except I did not understand what a—a common—dreadful—insulting thing I was doing——"
He waited; then: "I am not angry, Miss Gay."