XIX.
He could see that she avoided being alone with him the next day, but he took it for a sign of relenting, perhaps helpless relenting, that she was in her usual place on deck in the evening. He went to her, and, “I see that you haven't forgiven me,” he said.
“Forgiven you?” she echoed.
“Yes,” he said, “for letting that lady ask me to drive with her.”
“I never said—” she began.
“Oh, no! But I knew it, all the same. It was not such a very wicked thing, as those things go. But I liked your not liking it. Will you let me say something to you?”
“Yes,” she answered, rather breathlessly.
“You must think it's rather an odd thing to say, as I ask leave. It is; and I hardly know how to say it. I want to tell you that I've made bold to depend a great deal upon your good opinion for my peace of mind, of late, and that I can't well do without it now.”
She stole the quickest of her bird-like glances at him, but did not speak; and though she seemed, to his anxious fancy, poising for flight, she remained, and merely looked away, like the bird that will not or cannot fly.
“You don't resent my making you my outer conscience, do you, and my knowing that you're not quite pleased with me?”