"But you begin by a dozen thrusts, then beat down my guard, and cuff me about with blade and pommel "
"I had to. Now, does your vanity believe that my return to Silverwood was influenced by your piteous appeal over the wire and your bad temper, too?"
"No," he said solemnly.
"Well, then! I came here partly to put my notes in better shape for Mr. Sissly, partly to clear up odds and ends and leave him a clear field to plow in your persistent company," she added, with such engaging malice that even the name of Sissly, which he hated, made him laugh.
"You won't do that," he said confidently.
"Do what, Mr. Desboro?"
"Turn me over to anything named Sissly."
"Indeed, I will you and your celebrated collection! Of course you could go South, but, judging from your devotion to the study of ancient armour "
"You don't mean it, do you?"
"What? About your devotion?"
"No, about Sissly."
"Yes, I do. Listen to me, Mr. Desboro. I made up my mind that sleighing, and skating, and luncheon and tea, and you, are not good for a busy girl's business career. I'm going to be very practical and very frank with you. I don't belong here except on business, and you make it so pleasant and unbusinesslike for me that my conscience protests. You see, if the time I now take to lunch with you, tea with you, skate, sleigh, talk, listen, in your very engaging company is properly employed, I can attend to yards and yards of business in town. And I'm going to. I mean it, please," as he began to smile.
His smile died out. He said, quietly:
"Doesn't our friendship count for anything?"
She looked at him; shrugged her shoulders:
"Oh, Mr. Desboro," she said pleasantly, "does it, really?"
The blue eyes were clear and beautiful, and a little grave; only the upcurled corners of her mouth promised anything.
The car drew up at the house; she sprang out and ran upstairs to her room. He heard her in animated confab with Mrs. Quant for a few minutes, then she came down in her black business gown, with narrow edges of lawn at collar and cuffs, and the bright lock already astray on her cheek. A white carnation was tucked into her waist; the severe black of her dress, as always, made her cheeks and lips and golden hair more brilliant by contrast.
"Now," she said, "for my notes. And what are you going to do while I'm busy?"
"Watch you, if I may. You've heard about the proverbial cat?"
"Care killed it, didn't it?"
"Yes; but it had a good look at the Queen first."
A smile touched her eyes and lips a little wistfully.
"You know, Mr. Desboro, that I like to waste time with you. Flatter your vanity with that confession. And even if things were different but they couldn't ever be and I must work very hard if I'm ever going to have any leisure in my old age. But come to the library for this last day, and smoke as usual. And you may talk to amuse me, if you wish. Don't mind if I'm too busy to answer your folly in kind."
They went together to the library; she placed the mass of notes in front of her and began to sort them turned for a second and looked around at him with adorable malice, then bent again to the task before her.
"Miss Nevers!"
"Yes?"
"You will come to Silverwood again, won't you?"
She wrote busily with a pencil.
"Won't you?"
She made some marginal notes and he looked at the charming profile in troubled silence.
About ten minutes later she turned leisurely, tucking up the errant strand of hair with her pencil:
"Did you say anything recently, Mr. Desboro?"
"Out of the depths, yes. The voice in the wilderness as usual went unheeded. I wished to explain to you how we might give up our skating and sleighing and everything except the bare necessities and you could still come to Silverwood on business "
"What are the 'bare necessities'?"
"Your being here is one "
"Answer me seriously, please."
"Food, then. We must eat."
She conceded that much.
"We've got to motor to and from the station!"
She admitted that, too.
"Those," he pointed out, "are the bare necessities. We can give up everything else."
She sat looking at him, playing absently with her pencil. After a while, she turned to her desk again, and, bending over it, began to make meaningless marks with her pencil on the yellow pad.
"What is the object," she said, "of trying to make me forget that I wouldn't be here at all except on business?"
"Do you think of that every minute?"
"I must."
"It isn't necessary."
"It is imperative, Mr. Desboro and you know it."
She wrote steadily for a while, strapped a bundle of notes with an elastic band, laid it aside, and turned around, resting her arm on the back of the chair. Blue eyes level with his, she inspected him curiously. And, if the tension of excitement still remained, all her high spirits and the indiscreet impulses of a gay self-confidence had vanished. But curiosity remained the eternal, insatiable curiosity of the young.
How much did this man really mean of what he said to her? What did his liking for her signify other than the natural instinct of an idle young man for any pretty girl? What was he going to do about it? For she seemed to be conscious that, sooner or later, somewhere, sometime, he would do something further about it.
Did he mean to make love to her sometime? Was he doing it now? It resembled the preliminaries; she recognised them had been aware of them almost from the very first.
Men had made love to her before men in her own world, men in his world. She had learned something since her father died not a great deal; perhaps more from hearsay than from experience. But some unpleasant knowledge had been acquired at first hand; two clients of her father's had contributed, and a student, named Harroun, and an amateur of soft paste statuettes, the Rev. Bertie Dawley.
Innocently and wholesomely equipped to encounter evil, cool and clear eyed mistress of herself so far, she had felt, with happy contempt, that her fate was her own to control, and had wondered what the word "temptation" could mean to any woman.
What Cynthia had admitted made her a little wiser, but still incredulous. Cold, hunger, debts, loneliness these were not enough, as Cynthia herself had said. Nor, after all, was Cynthia's liking for Cairns. Which proved conclusively that woman is the arbiter of her own destiny.
Desboro, one knee crossed over the other, sat looking into the fire, which burned in the same fireplace where he had recently immolated the frivolous souvenirs of the past.
Perhaps some gay ghost of that scented sacrifice took shape for a moment in the curling smoke, for he suddenly frowned and passed his hand over his eyes in boyish impatience.
Something the turn of his head and shoulders the shape of them she did not know what seemed to set her heart beating loudly, ridiculously, without any apparent reason on earth. Too much surprised to be disturbed, she laid her slim hand on her breast, then against her throat, till her pulses grew calmer.
Resting her chin on her arm, she gazed over her shoulder into the fire. He had laid another log across the flames; she watched the bark catch fire, dully conscious, now, that her ideas were becoming as irresponsible and as reasonless as the sudden stirring of her heart had been.
For she was thinking how odd it would be if, like Cynthia, she too, ever came to care about a man of Desboro's sort. She'd see to it that she didn't; that was all. There were other men. Better still, there were to be no men; for her mind fastidiously refused to consider the only sort with whom she felt secure her intellectual inferiors whose moral worthiness bored her to extinction.