"I beg your pardon," he said. "I hope you were not hurt."
She looked at him scornfully without replying, and then walked to the
mantel, where there was a small antique mirror of silver.
"Thank you, not in the least."
Her tone was no warmer than an arctic night. She gathered her hair, and
began to twist it up. He followed and stood behind her with an air at
once deprecatory and insinuating.
"I shouldn't think you could see in that thing," he observed.
She took no notice of his words.
"If I laughed," continued he, "it was only from nervousness. I was
carried away"--
"I observed that you were," she interrupted icily.
He stood awkwardly a moment, while she finished putting up her hair.
Then, as she turned toward him, he smiled again, holding out his hand.
"Surely you are not angry with me," he pleaded. "I care more for your
feeling toward me than for anything else in the world."
"It would amuse Mrs. Rangely to hear you say so, not to mention my
husband."
He stared at her with the air of a man not sure whether he is awake or
dreaming.
"What are they to us?" he asked, sinking his voice almost to a whisper.
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