“You are kind to my roses—­if not to me,” he said quickly, and held out his hand for the brief little clasp she accorded.

“Your roses are dumb and have said nothing to make me cross,” she laughed lightly, and looked swiftly about her.  “How lovely this is,” she ran on, “and how charming to feel a breeze.  That room is rather warm and close....  Is you sister still too ill to come?”

And scarcely waiting for the assent which he began to frame with his searching eyes upon her, she added, “I am afraid I made her angry last night by intruding upon her.  But I heard her voice and ran back to her room to ask after her.  She wouldn’t let me stay at all.”

It was droll how natural her voice sounded, she thought.  His eyes held their fixed scrutiny in an instant, then dropped carelessly away, as he drew forward the wicker chairs.  “She is a nerveuse, you understand,” he said with an air of indolent resignation, “and one can do nothing for that sort of thing.  A crisis comes—­one must wait for it to pass....  She regrets that condition....  And she wished me to present her regrets to you,” he added suavely, “for that reception of you last night.  She was ill and did not expect you—­and she did not wish you to see her in that condition.”

“I should not have gone,” acknowledged Arlee, “but, as I said, I heard voices from the ante-room and thought I would like to see her....  That pretty little maid she gave me does not speak any English, so I cannot send any messages.”

“But you can write them.”

“My French spelling is worse than my pronunciation!” She laughed amusedly.  “I wish you would find me an interpreter to put my polite remarks into polite sounding phrases.  I know I put things like a First Reader!”

He smiled.  “You do not put them like a First Reader to me. We do not need an interpreter....  Unless I need one to speak to you?”

“Oh, no, your English is wonderful!” She waited an instant, then took a breathless plunge.  “Have you any more news for me?” she demanded, forcing the note of expectancy.  It would be suspicious, indeed, if she did not ask that.  But what if he had decided to throw the pretense aside——­

“Not one word of news more,” he said slowly.

She felt him watching her as she looked down on her plate.  The pretty little girl was passing a platter of pigeon:  Arlee did not speak until she had helped herself, then she said in a voice touched faintly with chagrin, “Well, the English are not very gallant toward ladies in misfortune, are they?  I feel furiously snubbed....  Of course Mrs. Eversham never was much of a writer, but they might send over my letters from the hotel.  The last mail ought to have brought a lot from that big brother of mine.”

“Ah, yes, that big, grown-up, married brother who is so satisfied with all you do!”

She felt she had been unfortunate in her rash confidences.