“You are proud of my friendship merely because I happen to be a princess,” she remarked sharply, glancing straight at him, her dark, well-marked brows slightly contracted.
“No, not for that, Your Highness,” he protested. “When we first met you led me to believe that you were poor and dependent upon your uncle. Was my attitude in any way different towards you then than it is now?”
“No. Ah, forgive me!” she replied quickly, stretching her little hand across to him in appeal. “I am, I know, too impetuous. It was foolish of me to utter such words, knowing them to be untrue! No, Mr Waldron, you have always shown yourself my friend, ever since that sunny morning when we first met on the deck of the Arabia. I deceived you, but under sheer compulsion, I assure you.”
“I have forgiven that long, long ago,” was his reply. “We are still friends and I, unfortunately, find you in distress. Yet you will not confide in me. That is what annoys me.”
“I regret if my silence irritates you in the least,” was her low reply, her face growing very grave. “But have you not, in your own heart, certain secrets which you do not desire divulged to anyone—certain private matters which concern your own life—perhaps your own honour?”
“Well, if you put it to me in that fashion, I cannot deny it,” he said. “I suppose we all have, more or less.”
“Then pray do not let my hesitation annoy you, Mr Waldron,” was her quiet, serious answer. “I know you are my friend, and I highly appreciate your friendship,—but I—I—”
And she broke off short, again biting her lip.
Then, without another word she took up her knife and fork and commenced to eat, as though to divert her thoughts from some subject intensely distasteful to her.
Waldron sat sorely puzzled.