"I know it. It won't do, either. I mean that we may laugh a little together, now and then. But it is safer not to think of each other as—as socially—equal."
I said magnanimously: "I am beginning to think of you in that way already."
"Are you really?" Her smile flashed out, mischievous, almost mocking.
"A servant?" she added. "Possibly even an adventuress? An agent, anyway, in the service of some government not yours? You consider admitting such a woman on terms of social equality? Oh, Don Michael! If you like me as much as that you must care a little more for me than mere liking."
"I do."
She began to laugh—a hushed, delicious sort of laughter, checked suddenly by my quick flush.
"If I take the trouble to be serious with you," said I, "as much is due me from you, I think."
It was, for me, utterly impossible to define the series of complex expressions which succeeded one another in her face.
She seemed inclined to laugh again but bit her lip and looked at me out of brilliant eyes. Mirth, surprise, gay disdain, a fleeting uncertainty, a slight blush,—then the familiar sweet mockery once more—these I read and followed as I watched her.
"Such a strange young man," I heard her murmur to herself.