He contrived to cover his anger, doubt, chagrin, general feeling of having been outwitted. "No, I shan't tell him," laughed he. "You are making a great fool of me."
"Do you want to back out?"
What audacity! He hesitated--did not dare. Her indifference to him--her personal, her physical indifference gave her the mastery. His teeth clenched and his passion blazed in his eyes as he said: "No--you witch!
I'll see it through."
She smiled lightly. "I suppose you'll come to the offices of the company--occasionally?" She drew nearer, stood at the corner of the desk. Into her exquisite eyes came a look of tenderness. "And I shall be glad to see you."
"You mean that?" he said, despising himself for his humble eagerness, and hating her even as he loved her.
"Indeed I do." She smiled bewitchingly. "You are a lot better man than you think."
"I am an awful fool about you," retorted he. "You see, I play my game with all my cards on the table. I wish I could say the same of you."
"I am not playing a game," replied she. "You make a mystery where there isn't any. And--all your cards aren't on the table." She laughed mockingly.
"At least, you think there's one that isn't--though, really, it is."
"Yes?"
"About your engagement."
He covered superbly. "Oh," said he in the most indifferent tone. "Tetlow told you."
"As soon as I heard that," she went on, "I felt better about you. I understand how it is with men--the passing fancies they have for women."
"How did you learn?" demanded he.
"Do you think a girl could spend several years knocking about down town in New York without getting experience?"
He smiled--a forced smile of raillery, hiding sud-den fierce suspicion and jealousy. "I should say not.
But you always pretend innocence."
"I can't be held responsible for what you read into my looks and into what I say," observed she with her air of a wise old infant. "But I was so glad to find out that you were seriously in love with a nice girl up town."
He burst out laughing. She gazed at him in childlike surprise. "Why are you laughing at me?" she asked.
"Nothing--nothing," he assured her. He would have found it difficult to explain why he was so intensely amused at hearing the grand Josephine Burroughs called "a nice girl up town."
"You are in love with her? You are engaged to her?" she inquired, her grave eyes upon him with an irresistible appeal for truth in them.
"Tetlow didn't lie to you," evaded he. "You don't know it, but Tetlow is going to ask you to marry him."
"Yes, I knew," replied she indifferently.
"How? Did he tell you?"
"No. Just as I knew you were not going to ask me to marry you."
The mere phrase, even when stated as a negation, gave him a sensation of ice suddenly laid against the heart.
"It's quite easy to tell the difference between the two kinds of men--those that care for me more than they care for themselves and those that care for themselves more than they care for me."
"That's the way it looks to you--is it?"
"That's the way it is," said she.
"There are some things you don't understand. This is one of them."
"Maybe I don't," said she. "But I've my own idea--and I'm going to stick to it."
This amused him. "You are a very opinionated and self-confident young lady," said he.
She laughed roguishly. "I'm taking up a lot of your time."
"Don't think of it. You haven't asked when the new deal is to begin."
"Oh, yes--and I shall have to tell Mr. Tetlow I'm not taking the place he got for me."
"Be careful what you say to him," cautioned Norman. "You must see it wouldn't be well to tell him what you are going to do. There's no reason on earth why he should know your business--is there?"
She did not reply; she was reflecting.
"You are not thinking of marrying Tetlow--are you?"
"No," she said. "I don't love him--and couldn't learn to."
With a sincerely judicial air, now that he felt secure, he said: "Why not? It would be a good match."
"I don't love him," she repeated, as if that were a sufficient and complete answer. And he was astonished to find that he so regarded it, also, in spite of every assault of all that his training had taught him to regard as common sense about human nature.
"You can simply say to Tetlow that you've decided to stay at home and take care of your father. The offices of the company will be at your house. Your official duties practically amount to taking care of your father. So you'll be speaking the truth."
"Oh, it isn't exactly lying, to keep something from somebody who has no right to know it. What you suggest isn't quite the truth. But it's near enough, and I'll say it to him."
