THE TOUCHSTONE
"You can't. It's too base. I thought you didn't care because you loved Flamel."
She blushed deeply. "Don't—don't—" she warned him.
"I haven't the right to, you mean?"
"I mean that you'll be sorry."
He stood imploringly before her. "I want to say something worse—something more outrageous. If you don't understand this you'll be perfectly justified in ordering me out of the house."
She answered him with a glance of divination. "I shall understand—but you'll be sorry."
"I must take my chance of that." He moved away and tossed the books about the table. Then he swung round and faced her. "Does Flamel care for you?" he asked.
Her flush deepened, but she still looked at him without anger. "What would be the use?" she said with a note of sadness.
"Ah, I didn't ask that," he penitently murmured.
"Well, then—"
To this adjuration he made no response beyond
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