"Upon what? How I behaved?"
"Oh, of course you'd behave well."
"Of course; but how would I have to behave to make you contented on a
desert island?"
She shot him a keen quick glance from beneath her bent brows.
"I never said I should be contented."
"But you implied it."
She whirled her muff over and over upon her two hands like the wheel of
a squirrel cage, regarding it intently with her pretty head on one
side.
"No, I didn't imply it either. I don't believe I could be contented."
"Not even with me?"
She flushed, but evidently not with displeasure.
"Why with you more than anybody else?" she softly inquired, with great
apparent artlessness.
"Because," he began, "I should"--He was going to add, "be so fond of
you," but reflected that this was perhaps going a little too fast and
too far, and concluded instead--"take such good care of you."
Perhaps it was because approaching footsteps sounded on the stairs
below them; perhaps it was because her subtile feminine sense
appreciated the fact that he was on his guard; but for some reason or
for no reason she tossed her head and rose to her feet.
"I am fortunately not obliged to go so far as a desert island to get
taken care of," she said.
Her companion was not unwilling that the talk should be broken in upon.
He smiled to himself as he followed her lead, and in a moment more he
was knocking at the door of Fenton's studio, which was well up toward
the roof.
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