"I should not imagine that she is your sort, anyway," he said offhandedly.
"She was my best friend at school."
Chris took up a book and threw it down again.
"Well, will you come on Sunday?"
"No, thank you."
He caught her hand as she passed him, and his voice was hoarse as he asked:
"Marie Celeste, what the devil have I done to make you hate me like this?"
He had not meant to say it. He had intended to maintain his dignity and indifference until it conquered her, but instead she had conquered him, and now there was a passionate desire in his heart to see the old shy look of adoration in her eyes and set the blood fluttering in her pale cheeks.
She gave a little, nervous laugh.
"I don't hate you; don't be absurd, Chris. Let me go; I want to finish these flowers."