She looked at him and there was nothing in nubibus to her about his presence now.  The violet eyes saw a substance—­such as it was; recognized a reality—­of its kind!  Before the clouds gathering in their depths, Mr. Heatherbloom felt inclined to excuse himself and go on; but instead, he waited.  There was even a furtive smile on his lips that belied a quick throbbing in his breast; he thrust one hand as debonairly as possible into his trousers pocket.  His attitude might have been interpreted to express indifference, recklessness, or one or more of the synonymous feelings.  She thought so badly of him already that she couldn’t think much worse, and—­

“So,”—­had she been paler than her wont, or had excess of passion sent the color from her face?—­“you are a spy as well!”

His head shot back a little at the accent on the “well”, but he thrust his hand yet deeper into the pocket and strove not to lose that assumed expression of ease.

“I—­a spy?  I did not intend to—­you—­” He paused; if he wished to set himself right in her eyes, why should he have spoken at all?  Mr. Heatherbloom saw he had not quite argued out this matter as he should have done; his bearing became less assured.

“Is there”—­her voice low and tense—­“anything despicable, mean, paltry enough that you are not?”

Mr. Heatherbloom moistened his lips; he strove to think of a reply, sufficiently comprehensive to cover all the features of the case, but not finding one at once apologetic and yet not so, remained silent.  He made, however, a little gesture with his hand—­the one that wasn’t in the pocket.  That seemed to imply something; he didn’t quite know what.

She came slightly closer and his heart began to pound harder.  A breath of perfume seemed to ascend between them; the arrows in her eyes darted into his.  “How much—­what did you hear?” she demanded.

“I—­am really not sure—­” Was it the orchids which perfumed the air?  He had always heard they were odorless.  The question intruded; his brain seemed capable of a dual capacity, or of a general incapacity of simultaneous considerations.  He might possibly have stepped back a little now but there was a wall, the broad blank wall behind him.  He wished he were that void she had first seemed to see—­or not to see—­in him.  “I didn’t hear very much—­the first part, I imagine—­”

“The first part?” Roses of anger burned on her cheek.  “And afterward?—­spy!” Her little hands were tight against her side.

He hesitated; her foot moved; all that was passionate, vibrant in her nature seemed concentrated on him.

“I don’t think I caught much; but I heard him say something about fate, or destiny, and men coming into their own—­that old Greek kind of talk, don’t you know—­” He spoke lightly.  Why not?  There was no need of being melodramatic.  What had to be must be.  He couldn’t alter her, or what she would think.  “Then—­then I was too busy to catch more—­that is, if I had wanted to—­which I didn’t!” He was forced to add the last; it burst from his lips with sudden passion; then they curved a little as if to ask excuse for a superfluity.