“Only we both lost our tempers; I with my stupid sprained ankle, you with your stupid books. I was so sorry you let Mr. Santley see you were annoyed. He must have thought it so odd.”
How light and free of heart she seemed! how bright and languishing her eyes were! She could laugh, too, and she was not much given to laughter, I looked at her with amazement, so little did I, or do I, understand women. There seemed to be an ugliness, a guiltiness, about her tender coquetry that evening, coming so close upon what I had seen.
“By the way,” she continued, after a few minutes’ pause, “I hope you will not scold me again, but I think I ought to tell you—that Mr. Santley has just called. There, now you are angry; but I thought it right to tell you.”
“Thank you,” I said drily. “I was aware that he had called. What brought him, pray?”
“He wished to ascertain if I had recovered from the effects of my fall,” she replied, with a little more nervousness than before.
“Oh, a mere visit of politeness!
“Yes,” she answered, faltering.
I rose quietly, and stood on the hearthrug, looking down upon her.
“Would it surprise you to hear,” I asked grimly, “that I know exactly what took place between you?”
Her face flushed scarlet, the book fell from her hands.