"Yes, it is a shocking habit of mine, Mr.
Conniston. I learned to smoke in the East. Is it so very bad, do you
think?"
He fairly shook himself. He wanted to say, "You beautiful little liar,
I'd like to call your bluff right now, but I won't, because I'm sorry
for you!" Instead, he nipped off the end of his cigar, and said:
"In England, you know, the ladies smoke a great deal. Personally I may
be a little prejudiced. I don't know that it is sinful, especially when
one uses such good judgment--in orientals." And then he was powerless
to hold himself back. He smiled at her frankly, unafraid. "I don't
believe you smoke," he added.
He rose to his feet, still smiling across at her, like a big brother
waiting for her confidence. She was not alarmed at the directness with
which he had guessed the truth. She was no longer embarrassed. She
seemed for a moment to be looking through him and into him, a strange
and yearning desire glowing dully in her eyes. He saw her throat
twitching again, and he was filled with an infinite compassion for this
daughter of the man he had killed. But he kept it within himself. He
had gone far enough. It was for her to speak. At the door she gave him
her hand again, bidding him good-night.
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