“I am pleased to have written only one line that attracted your attention,” said Floyd, bowing.
“No, no—it was this—“The whitest soul of man or saint is black beside a girl’s.”
“Beside a child’s,” said Floyd, correcting her.
“Oh! yes, so it is—‘beside a child’s.’”
Her voice was low and musical. Floyd glanced up and caught her look, and the color deepened in her cheek as the young man suddenly leant a little towards her and gazed earnestly into her eyes, which she dropped, but instantly raised again.
“Yes—good-night,” she held out her hand, with a taking gesture and smile.
“Good-night,” said Floyd, and passed on up the stairs to the dressing-room. He got his coat and hat and came down the stairway. A group seized him.
“Come to the club,” they said. He declined.
“Roast oysters and beer,” they said.
“No, I’m going home.”