She flashed her great eyes up at him, as if he had given her a personal affront. He smiled enigmatically, and she flushed with anger.
"He has a headache," Leith returned, leisurely. "You know he isn't strong. That dose of jungle fever about knocked him out."
"I'm sorry he isn't feeling well. I'm—"
She strove to infuse the sentence with earnestness, but her voice had never sounded colder in her own ears, and she found it impossible to finish the speech. She paused uncomfortably, and after a moment Leith said, with another smile that somehow made her feel that she hated him more than ever:
"Won't you ask me to sit down? I never could stand with any degree of comfort."
"Certainly, if you wish to sit," she answered. "I thought perhaps you would be going to the opera."
"No; I told you I shouldn't," he answered, sitting down gracefully and looking up at her carelessly. "I had much rather hear you sing."
"But I never sing."
"Oh, yes, you do. Olney has told me. He says that you have a singularly lovely voice, and I have always considered Olney one of the few really good judges of music."