But she had learned to hold herself in check since that first, abrupt and clear-minded recognition of such a possibility.
Never by a word or glance had she ever betrayed herself; yet his very nearness to her, at times, set her heart beating, set a faint thrill stealing through her. Yet her eyes always met his pleasantly, frankly, steadily; her hand lay calm and cool in his when she welcomed him or bade him good-bye. Always she schooled herself to withstand what threatened her, gave it no food for reflection, no sustenance, no status, no consideration.
Love came as no friend to her. She soon realized that. And she quietly faced him and bade him keep his distance.
She looked at herself again in the glass. Her brown eyes were very, very serious. Then the smile glimmered.
"Quand même," she murmured gaily, and switched off the light.
CHAPTER XXIV
It was a warm day in early June and Cleland, working in trousers and undershirt, and driven by thirst to his tin ice-box, discovered it to be empty.
"Confound it," he muttered, and rang up Stephanie's studio. A maid answered, saying that Miss Quest had gone motoring and Miss Davis had not yet returned from shopping.
"I want to borrow a lump of ice," explained Cleland. "I'll come down for it."
So he concealed his lack of apparel under a gay silk dressing gown, picked up a pan, and went down, not expecting to encounter anybody.