But he
found her, with her gentle aloofness, exceedingly appealing, and
with the tact of the man who understands women he adapted himself
to her humor.
"You are making me very unhappy; Miss Lily," he said. "If you'll
only promise to let me see you now and then, I'll promise to be as
mild as dish-water. Will you promise?"
She was still struggling, still remembering Willy Cameron, still
trying to remember all the things that Louis Akers was not.
"I think I ought not to see you at all."
"Then," he said slowly, "you are going to cut me off from the one
decent influence in my life."
She was still revolving that in her mind when tea came. Akers,
having shot his bolt, watched with interest the preparation for the
little ceremony, the old Georgian teaspoons, the Crown Derby cups,
the bell-shaped Queen Anne teapot, beautifully chased, the old
pierced sugar basin. Almost his gaze was proprietary. And he
watched Lily, her casual handling of those priceless treasures, her
taking for granted of service and beauty, her acceptance of quality
because she had never known anything else, watched her with
possessive eyes.
When the servant had gone, he said:
"You are being very nice to me, in view of the fact that you did not
ask me to come.
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