"They would not let you come to me, so I have come to you,"
she declared with a daring little laugh. "I have run away from my
guests. There is a houseful of them and they tire me to death.
Everyone tires me to-night except you." The gentleman stood before her
speechless with bewilderment. "I believe," she said with a little
pout, like a spoiled child, "that you are not glad to see me."
"Glad to see you," he repeated, "dearest, yes! But not in this way, at
this time."
She turned aside, but the drops that glittered on her cheek now were
not caused by the rain. Her shimmering silken robes seemed to utter
continuous soft whispers of applause to her nervous yet graceful
movements. Altogether she was an incongruous object in the unhome-like
bareness of a bachelor's apartments. "You are not very cordial,
monsieur," she remarked in a cold tone, as she stood with her back to
him, staring hard at an uninteresting picture above the mantel-shelf;
"it seems to be a pleasure to you to receive an evening caller, but
not exactly a rapture." She smiled her old imperious smile as she
threw herself into a tired-looking chair, while her host, with very
obvious reluctance, sank into one just opposite.
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