"
"I can't."
"Try, Eileen."
"Why, it is nothing; truly it is nothing. . . . Only I was--it is so
early--only a quarter past eight--"
He stood there looking down at her, striving to understand.
"That is all," she said, flushing a trifle; "I can't read and I can't
sew and there's nobody here. . . . I don't mean to bother you--"
"Child," he exclaimed, "do you _want_ me to stay?"
"Yes," she said; "will you?"
He walked swiftly to the landing outside and looked down.
"Boots!" he called in a low voice, "I'm not going home yet. Don't wait
for me at the Lenox."
"All right," returned Mr. Lansing cheerfully. A moment later the front
door closed below. Then Selwyn came back into the library.
For an hour he sat there telling her the gayest stories and talking the
most delightful nonsense, alternating with interesting incisions into
serious subjects: which it enchanted her to dissect under his confident
guidance.
Alert, intelligent, all aquiver between laughter and absorption, she had
sat up among her silken pillows, resting her weight on one rounded arm,
her splendid young eyes fixed on him to detect and follow and interpret
every change in his expression personal to the subject and to her share
in it.
Pages:
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211