"No. I told you not to be, by way of a general warning--"
"Is it? If I tell you not to go out of the room, for instance, and if you sit still--is it the same thing as though you got up and went out?"
"I'll never say again that women aren't logical," answered Lawrence, smiling in spite of himself.
"Thanks--I've not finished. It's too hot to drink."
Thereupon, his good temper returning, he desisted from self-torture by scalding, and set the cup down. Fanny watched him, but turned her eyes away as he looked up and she met his glance.
"I'm so glad you've come," she said quietly. "I've looked forward to it."
Perhaps she was a little the more ready to say so, because she was inwardly conscious of having rather wilfully teased him, but she meant what she said. Lawrence felt his heart beating again in a moment. Resting his elbow on his knees, he clasped his hands and looked down at the pattern of the rug under his feet. She did not realize how easily she could move him, not being by any means a flirt.
"It's nothing to the way I've looked forward to it," he answered.
She was silent, but he did not raise his head. He could see her face in the carpet.
"You know that, don't you?" he asked, in a low voice, after a few moments.
Unfortunately for his information on the subject, the butler appeared just then, announcing a visitor.
It was clear that the manservant had no option in the matter of admitting the newcomer, who was in the room almost before his name was pronounced.
"How do you do, Miss Trehearne?" he began as he came swiftly forward. "I'm tremendously glad to find you at home. You're generally out at this hour."
"Is that why you chose it?" asked Fanny, with a little laugh and holding out her hand. "Do you know Mr. Lawrence?" she continued, by way of introducing the two men. "Mr. Brinsley," she added, for Louis's benefit.
Lawrence had risen, and he shook hands with a good grace. But he hated Mr. Brinsley at once, both because the latter had come inopportunely and because his own sensitive nature was instantly and strongly repelled by the man.
There was no mistaking Mr. Brinsley's Canadian accent, though he seemed anxious to make it as English as possible, and Lawrence disliked Canadians; but that fact alone could not have produced the strongly disagreeable sensation of which the younger man was at once conscious, and he looked at the visitor in something like surprise at the strength of his instantaneous aversion. Brinsley, though dressed quietly, and with irreproachable correctness, was a showy man, of medium height, but magnificently made. His wrists were slender, nervous, and sinewy, his ankles--displayed to advantage by his low russet shoes--were beautifully modelled, whereas his shoulders were almost abnormally broad, and the cords and veins moved visibly in his athletic neck when he spoke or moved. The powerful muscles were apparent under his thin grey clothes, and Lawrence had noticed the perfect grace and strength of his quick step when he had entered. In face he was very dark, and his wiry, short black hair had rusty reflexions. His skin was tanned to a deep brown, and mottled, especially about the eyes, with deep shadows, in which were freckles even darker than the shadows themselves. His beard evidently grew as high as his cheek bones, for the line from which it was shaved was cleanly drawn and marked by the dark fringe remaining above. His mustache was black and heavy, and he wore very small, closely cropped whiskers like those affected by naval officers. He had one of those arrogant, vain, astute noses which seem to point at whatever the small and beady black eyes judge to be worth having.