He did not see Nina alone again until a few moments before he left. He drew her out into the hall while Hastings was saying good-night to Mr. Randolph.

“May I come often?” he asked.

“Will you?”

“I certainly shall.”

“Will you talk to me about things that men scarcely ever talk to girls about,—books and art—and—what one thinks about more than what one does.”

“I’ll talk about anything under heaven that [Pg 58]you want to talk about—particularly yourself.”

“I don’t want to talk about myself.”

Her face was sparkling with coquetry, but it flushed under the intensity of his gaze. His brown skin was paler than when he had entered the house, his hard features were softened by the shaded lamp of the hall, and his grey eyes had kindled as he took her hand. She looked very lovely in a white gown touched up with red velvet bows.

“I believe you’ll be a tremendous flirt by the time you leave here,” she said, trying to draw her hand away. “And don’t tell me this is your first experience in eight years.”

“I’ve known a good many women,” he said, bluntly. “At present I am only following your cues—and there are a bewildering lot of them. When you are serious, I shall be serious. When you are not—I shall endeavour to be frivolous. To be honest, however, I have no intention of flirting with you, fascinating and provocative as you are. I’d like awfully to be your intimate friend, but nothing more. Good-night.”