The Powers and Maxine

								

far, far from me."
With that, he looked at me suddenly, and his face grew slowly red, under
the brown.
"You are a very kind Imp," he said. "Imp" is the name he invented for
me. I loved to hear him call me by it.
"Kind!" I echoed. "One isn't kind when one--likes--people."
I saw by his eyes, then, that he knew. But I didn't care. If only I
could make him say the words I longed to hear--even because he pitied
me, because he had found out how I loved him, and because he had really
too much of the dark-young-Crusader-knight in him, to break my heart! I
made up my mind that I would take him at his word, quickly, if he gave
me the chance; and I would tell Di that he was dreadfully in love with
me. That would make her writhe.
I kept my eyes on him, and I let them tell him everything. He saw; there
was no doubt of that; but he did not say the words I hoped for. A moment
or two he was silent; and then, gazing away towards the door of the
ballroom, he spoke very gently, as if I had been a child--though I am
older than Di by three or four years.
"Thank you, Imp, for letting me see that you are such a staunch little
friend," said he. "Now that I know you really do take an interest in my
affairs, I think I may tell you why I want so much to go to
Algiers--though very likely you've guessed already--you are such an
'intuitive' girl. And besides, I haven't tried very hard to hide my
feelings--not as hard as I ought, perhaps, when I realise how little I
have to offer to your sister. Now you understand all, don't you--even if
you didn't before? I love her, and if I go to Algiers--"
"Don't say any more," I managed to cut him short. "I can't bear--I mean,
I understand. I--did guess before."
It was true. I had guessed, but I wouldn't let myself believe. I hoped
against hope. He was so much kinder to me than any other man ever took
the trouble to be, in all my wretched, embittered twenty-four years of
life.
"Di might have told me," I went gasping on, rather than let there be a
long silence between us just then. I had enough pride not to want him to
see me cry--though, if it could have made any difference, I would have
grovelled at his feet and wet them with my tears. "But she never does
tell me anything about herself."
"She's so unselfish and so fond of you, that probably she likes better
to talk about you instead," he defended her. And then I felt that I
could hate him, as much as I've always hated Di, deep down in my heart.
At that minute I should have liked to kill her, and watch his face when
he found her lying dead--out of his reach for ever.
"Besides," he hurried on, "I've never asked her yet if she would marry
me, because--my prospects weren't very brilliant. She knows of course
that I love her--"
"And if you get the consulship, you'll put the important question?" I
cut him short, trying to be flippant.
"Yes. But I told you tonight, because I--because you were so kind, I