"I'll write it myself."
She took the pencil from its sheath in the leather binding of the book.
Controlling himself, the lover whom she hated advanced towards her with a
persuasive smile.
"Have you forgiven me?" he asked. "Have you been speaking kindly of me? I
think I see it in your face. There are some deaf people who can tell what
is said by looking at the speaker's lips. I am too stupid, or too
impatient, or too wicked to be able to do that. Write it for me, dear,
and make me happy for the day."
Cristel was not attending to him, she was speaking to me. "I hope, sir,
you don't think that father and I are to blame for what has happened this
morning," she said. He looked where she was looking--and discovered, for
the first time, that I was in the room.
He had alluded to his wickedness a moment since. When his face turned my
way, I thought it bore witness to his knowledge of his own character.
"Why didn't you come to my side of the house?" he said to me. "What am I
to understand, sir, by seeing you here?"
Cristel dropped his book on the table, and hurried to me in breathless
surprise. "He speaks as if he knew you!" she cried. "What does it mean?"
"Only that I met him last night," I explained, "after leaving you."
"Did you know him before that?"
"No. He was a perfect stranger to me."
He picked up his book from the table, and took his pencil out of
Cristel's hand, while we were speaking.
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