She struck the chords a crash and whirled round to him with her hands in her lap. "Yes, it is quite true. From my head to my feet—" here she thrust forth through the music of the shaken fringe a slim gold shoe with its buckle winking up at him—"you have paid for every rag I stand in." Christina's accent upon the word "rag" suggested that she was accustomed to standing in something much better. "It would be hard if you were not suited. Would you like to go to your room a moment? It's all ready."
He must have considered this jabber at somewhat its true worth, for what he did was to draw up a chair and take and hold her hands. "Christina," said he, studying her face, "do you hate me so much?"
She remained a moment, silent. Then, "Yes!" she said. "I am a good hater!" And she smiled at him, a soft, stinging smile, with her eyes lingering on his.
"And yet you come—willingly—to me?"
"Willingly?" she said. "Oh, greedily!"
"Of your own suggestion?"
"Of my own suggestion."
"And on my terms?"
"Ah, no!" she cried. "On mine!"
"Well, then, for simply what you know I have?"