Part 23 (1/2)

”Why, Dita,” breaking off sharply and starting to his feet, ”what is the matter? Are you ill?”

Indeed he was justified in thinking so. She had grown white as snow. The color had left even her lips.

”No,” she spoke with an effort, but she lifted her head, as if by main strength of will. ”No,” and he was infinitely relieved to see a bit of color creep back into her lips, but the eyes she courageously raised to his were dark with an emotion which he could only translate as fear or horror, he could not tell which.

”Have I offended you, then?” he murmured. ”Believe me--”

”No, no,” she insisted so definitely that he was forced to believe her.

”It was something quite different. Something, something I just remembered.”

She was manifestly so confused and disturbed that he did not press the point. It would have seemed both unkind and unwise to do so, and then, although her eyes still retained that curiously shocked, almost horror-stricken expression, the color had returned to her cheek.

”You were saying?” she began, her voice steady enough now. ”Oh, yes, I remember, about the money.” Those deep vibrations of emotion thrilled her tones. ”Well, I won't have it. Won't touch it. I will not hear of settlements. I can make enough for my needs.”

He lifted his eyes and looked at her quickly and then the eyelids almost closed. Perdita was under very close observation.

”Naturally, I do not for a moment dispute that. It is a fact already proven, but it is my wish to remove the necessity from you. Your occupation will then continue to be a source of amus.e.m.e.nt, of interest to you, but you will not feel that it is your sole dependence.”

She shook her head with a sort of irrevocable gentleness with which he could not fail to be struck.

”No,” she said, ”it is really quite useless to discuss the matter.

Truly, Cresswell, I will not even consider it.”

”But, Dita,” he began, then paused a moment as if to make a choice of arguments, desirous of using at once the most potent and evidently preparing to undermine and break down the barriers of her decision if it took a month.

She forestalled him, however, with a quick flank movement. She rose to her feet. ”Cresswell,” she said, ”I promised you last night that I would discuss this matter with you this morning, but now,” there was the least hesitation in her voice, ”I am going to ask a favor. I dined with you last night, now will you dine with me to-night? Will you? There will only be Miss Fleming and her father, and she will just sit at the table a few minutes, she never dines before playing; Wallace Martin and Maud, and they are going somewhere, so you and I will have the leisure of a long evening to discuss all the pros and cons of this question, your side and mine. Will you come?”

She was looking at him so earnestly, there was something so strange in the depths of her dark eyes, that he felt tempted on the moment to beg an explanation of this postponement. Then, as quickly he relinquished it.

”I shall be delighted to come,” he said heartily. ”And if to-night you are in no mood to talk over dry details, we will put it off again until a more convenient season.”

”No.” Her tone was positive. ”I am quite sure that we will come to one decision or another this evening. Good-by.”

When the curtain at the door had fallen behind him, Dita sat down again.

She did not seem to be thinking or mentally engaged in any way whatever.

On the contrary, she seemed to be waiting, two or three minutes pa.s.sed, five. Still she waited. Ah, a bitter smile hovered for one moment around her lips. Her whole tense figure relaxed a little as if the moment which she had so confidently expected had come.

There was the sound of the shutting of the outer door in the small room to the left, then a halting step across the bare and polished floor.

Eugene's step. He paused a moment in the doorway leading into the larger room, but as Dita did not turn nor give any sign whatever of having heard him, he came on.

”Back again, you see,” he said. ”I saw Hepworth leaving the house just as I came about the corner up here, so I knew the coast was clear. May I sit down?”

For the first time Dita looked at him. He was unmistakably not of the same temper in which he had left her an hour before. The buoyancy and spring of him had vanished. His eyes were clouded, his mouth depressed, certain lines on his brow and about his mouth stood out more markedly than usual. In fact, he seemed to have halted midway in some mood between dismay and anger. And as Dita observed this, there again played about her mouth for one instant that same, sad, bitter, secretive smile.

She had leaned back in her chair as if prepared to remain some time, but she made no effort whatever to carry on a conversation or even to embark on one.

The frown deepened on Eugene's brow. This att.i.tude on her part was evidently irritating to him.

”Everything settled, Dita, and satisfactorily?”