One of those odd changes she had once or twice noticed before had come
over John Steele; his face appeared too grave, too reserved; she might
almost fancy a stormy play of emotion behind that mask of immobility.
The girl's long lashes lowered; a slightly puzzled expression shone from
her eyes. It may be she had but the natural curiosity of her sex, that
her interest was compelled, because, although she had studied this man
from various standpoints, his personality, strong, direct in some ways,
she seemed unable to fathom. The golden head tilted; she allowed an
impression of his profile to grow upon her.

"Do you know," she laughingly remarked, "you are not very interesting?"

He started. "Interesting!"

"A penny for your thoughts!" ironically.

"They're not worth it."

"No?"

He bent a little nearer; she swept back the disordered lock; an instant
the man seemed to lose his self-possession. "Ah," he began, as if the
words forced themselves from his lips, "if only I might--"

What he had been on the point of saying was never finished; the girl's
quick glance, sweeping an instant ahead, had lingered on some one
approaching from the opposite direction, and catching sight of him, she
had just missed noting that swift alteration in John Steele's tones, the
brief abandonment of studied control, a flare of irresistible feeling.