She threw a hurried and, it seemed to me, frightened glance toward the
drawing-room. “I didn't intend to offend you,” she said in a low voice.
“You have been such a good friend to papa--I've no right to feel anything
but friendship for you.”
“I'm glad to hear you say that,” said I. And I was; for those words of hers
were the first expression of appreciation and gratitude I had ever got from
any member of that family which I was holding up from ruin. I put out my
hand, and she laid hers in it.
“There isn't anything I wouldn't do to earn your friendship, Miss Anita,” I
said, holding her hand tightly, feeling how lifeless it was, yet feeling,
too, as if a flaming torch were being borne through me, were lighting a
fire in every vein.
The scarlet poured into her face and neck, wave on wave, until I thought
it would never cease to come. She snatched her hand away and from her face
streamed proud resentment. God, how I loved her at that moment!
“Anita! Mr. Blacklock!” came from the other room, in her mother's voice.
“Come in here and save us old people from boring each other to sleep.”
She turned swiftly and went into the other room, I following. There were a
few minutes of conversation--a monologue by her mother. Then I ceased to
disregard Ellersly's less and less covert yawns, and rose to take leave. I
could not look directly at Anita, but I was seeing that her eyes were fixed
on me, as if by some compulsion, some sinister compulsion. I left in high
spirits. “No matter why or how she looks at you,” said I to myself. “All
that is necessary is to get yourself noticed. After that, the rest is easy.
You must keep cool enough always to remember that under this glamour that
intoxicates you, she's a woman, just a woman, waiting for a man.”