"
As impulsively as she had spoken, she gave him her hands.
Holding them fugitively in both his own, he gazed intently into the
shadowed loveliness of her face.
Then with a slight shake of his head--whether of renunciation or of
disappointment, she couldn't tell--he bent so low that for a thought
she fancied he meant to touch his lips to her fingers.
But he gave them back to her as they had come to him.
"It is you who are kind, Miss Blessington," he said steadily--"very
kind indeed to me. I presume, and you permit; I violate your privacy,
and you are not angry; I am what I am--and you are kind. That is going
to be my most gracious memory....
"And now," he broke off sharply, "all the pretty people are going
home, and you must, too. May I venture one step farther? Don't permit
Bayard Shaynon--"
"I don't mean to," she told him. "Knowing what I know--it's
impossible."
"You will go to the Plaza?"
"Yes," she replied: "I've made up my mind to that."
"You have a cab waiting, of course. May I call it for you?"
"My own car," she said; "the call check is with my wraps. But," she
smiled, "I shall be glad to give it to you, to hand to the porter, if
you'll be so good."
He had longed to be asked to accompany her; and at the same time
prayed to be spared that trial. Already he had ventured too perilously
close to the brink of open avowal of his heart's desire.
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