More than once she
was conscious of gazing at him to find the charm that Lilian had
found; more than once he caught her glance and held it there
suspended; more than once you might have thought, by the quick,
impatient manner in which she tore her eyes away, that she had found
the charm herself. Perhaps he made some ostentation of his attraction
before the others; perhaps the simulation of warmth was close enough
to melt a colder heart than hers; perhaps it was not wholly
simulation. It may be that her hand lay in his a moment longer than
need was, her glance fell before his a moment sooner: it may be that
as she fled all her manner beckoned him to follow. She was confiding
to him her thoughts, her aspirations, her emotions, as if she wished
that he, and he alone, should know them: he was listening as though
there were no other knowledge in the world. If presently he thought of
her as a creature of romance, if presently she felt the need of that
keen interest, what wonder? They were playing with fire, and those
that play with fire must needs be burned. And meantime, whether he
looked at her languid in the burning noon, gay with the reviving
freshness of the dusk, leaning over the bulwarks in the night and
gazing up into the great spaces of the stars, he was always fascinated
to look again.
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