“What do you want?” she asked, though not quite with the original asperity.
“It did not occur to me you would notice,” he said in the language she had ventured. “I saw you yesterday. You made me think of New York. As I was near to-day, I hoped to see you again—-”
“You are American?” She spoke now in English, and with a still softer intonation.
“Yes,—you speak English, too?”
“I like it. It is—-” she checked herself and asked with just a shade of coldness, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
It might be construed as a courtesy to a stranger from one who lived in Warsaw. Peter liked it, a certain vista opening. However, there was no answer within reach except the truth, and he plunged:
“I should like to know you better.”
The red lower lip disappeared beneath the other. Her gray eyes grew very wide; something intrepid and exquisite in her manner as she searched his face. Whatever she knew of the world, she dared still to trust her intuition—this was something of the revelation he drew.
“Why?”
Many people were passing. He looked toward the quieter center of the Square.