Читать книгу White Magic. A Novel онлайн

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“I?” he exclaimed in derision.

“Yes, you,” she affirmed, meeting his gaze gravely.

His eyes wavered; he confusedly sought and lit a cigarette.

“Of course,” pursued she, “I never could have done such a thing if I hadn’t known it would be—agreeable.”

That word agreeable struck him as being a peculiarly happy choice. He chuckled. Her smile showed that she herself regarded it as a rhetorical triumph. “You’ll have a chocolate—won’t you?” said he.

“Thank you,” she accepted, with eager gratitude. “Won’t you let me make it?”

He was already busy. “I can’t have you mussing in my closet,” he laughed. “Though, Heaven knows, I feel as if you were at home here.” It slipped out, before he realized what he was saying. He hoped she had not heard.

But she had. “That’s it!” cried she. “Don’t we feel at home and at ease with each other! I never felt that way with anybody in my life before. And I’ve an instinct that you never did, either—never so much so.... What’s the matter?”

He had turned in the closet doorway, was gazing gloomily at her, and, being so big and so dark, his gloom was indeed somber—suggested the darkness of an enchanted forest. “After all my resolutions!” he exclaimed, with bitterness of self-reproach. He shut the closet. “No chocolate,” he said firmly. “You must go home and let me work.”