I indicated a chair some distance away, but to my confusion she seated herself near me. I reached for my jacket and wriggled into it; after which I felt more at ease.
“I have just found out where you were,” she began. “I could not wait until to-morrow to thank you. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”
Really she spoke remarkably well. Really she looked remarkably stunning. Her complexion had the tone of old ivory, and her eyes of an odalisque seemed to refract all the light of the room. I could feel them fixed on me in a distracting, magnetising way.
“Don’t mention it,” I answered; “there’s nothing to forgive. It’s very good of you to think of thanking me.”
She begun to fumble with a glove button. “Tell me,” she almost whispered, “tell me, why did you do it?”
“Oh, I—I don’t quite know?”
She threw out her hands with an impulsive gesture. Her black eyes glowed fiercely, then grew soft.
“Was it because you—you loved me?”
I stared. This was too much. Was the girl mad? I replied with some asperity:
“No, it was because I thought you must be in some desperate trouble. I was sorry for you. I wanted to save you.”