“I—am sorry for you.”
He said nothing.
“And—I like you, Mr. Neeland.”
The avowal in the soft, prettily modulated voice, lost none of its charm and surprise because the voice was a trifle tremulous, and the girl’s face was tinted with a delicate colour.
“I like to believe what you say, Scheherazade,” he said pleasantly. “Somehow or other I never did think you hated me personally—except once––”
She flushed, and he was silent, remembering her humiliation in the Brookhollow house.
“I don’t know,” she said in a colder tone, “why I should feel at all friendly toward you, Mr. Neeland, except that you are personally courageous, and you have shown yourself generous under a severe temptation to be otherwise. 236
“As for—any personal humiliation—inflicted upon me––” She looked down thoughtfully and pretended to sort out a bonbon to her taste, while the hot colour cooled in her cheeks.
“I know,” he said, “I’ve also jeered at you, jested, nagged you, taunted you, kiss––” He checked himself and he smiled and ostentatiously lighted a cigarette.
“Well,” he said, blowing a cloud of aromatic smoke toward the ceiling, “I believe that this is as strange a week as any man ever lived. It’s like a story book—like one of your wonderful stories, Scheherazade. It doesn’t seem real, now that it is ended––”