The laughter died slowly from her eyes.
"Don't," she said. "It would be asking pardon for being yourself.
You wanted to know: so you asked. And I'm going to answer. I shall
be very glad to correspond with you and tell you about my sort of
things, if you happen to be interested in them. I warn you: they
are not very exciting."
"They are yours," said he.
She half rose to bow in mock graciousness, caught herself, and sank
back.
"No, I won't," she said, more than half to herself. She sat
brooding for a moment; then suddenly her mood changed. She sprang
up, shook her skirts free, and seated herself at the piano. To
Orde, who had also arisen, she made a quaint grimace over her
shoulder.
"Admire your handiwork!" she told him. "You are rapidly bringing me
to 'tell the truth and shame the devil.' Oh, he must be dying of
mortification this evening!" She struck a great crashing chord,
holding the keys while the strings reverberated and echoed down
slowly into silence again. "It isn't fair," she went on, "for you
big simple men to disarm us. I don't care! I have my private
opinion of such brute strength. JE ME MOQUE!"
She wrinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes. Then ruthlessly she
drowned his reply in a torrent of music.
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