Tom Hammond held the pretty, plump little hand that she offered him clasped warmly in his, almost forgetting himself as he gazed down into her expressive face and listened to her rich musical voice. There was an ardency in his gaze that was unknown, unrealized, by himself.
The olive of the girl’s cheeks warmed under the power of his gaze. He saw the warm colour rise, and remembered himself, shifted his eyes, and released her hand.
“I must not stay another moment, Abraham,” she cried, turning to the Jew. “Adah would be vexed if I were late.”
She turned back to Hammond, but before she could speak he was saying,
“Good-bye, Miss Robart; I hope we may meet again. What your brother has already told me only incites me to come again and see him, for there are many things I want to know.”
He shook hands with the girl again. His eyes met hers, and again he saw the olive cheeks suddenly warm.
Ten minutes later he was driving back to his office, his mind in a strange whirl, the beautiful face of Zillah Robart filling all his vision.
He pulled himself up at last, and laughed low and amusedly as he murmured,
“And I am the man whose pulses had never been quickened by the sight or the touch of a woman until I met her——”
The memory of Madge Finisterre flashed into his mind. He smiled to himself as he mused: