THE BRASS BOWL
us together like this, so—so oddly." Her tone was almost plaintive; unquestionably it was appealing.
Maitland was curiously moved by the touch of the slim, cool fingers that lay in his palm. Not unpleasantly. He frowned in perplexity, unable to analyze the sensation.
"You're not angry?" she asked.
"No—but—but"
"Yes?"
"Why do you do this, little woman? Why do you stoop to this—this trade of yo—of ours? Why sully your hands,—and not only your hands,—imperil your good name, to say nothing of your liberty?"
She drew her hand away quickly, interrupting him with a laugh that rang true as a coin new from the mint, honest and genuine.
"And this," she cried, "this from Dan Anisty! Positively, sir, you are delightful! You grow more dangerously original every minute! Your scruples, your consideration, your sympathy—they are touching—in you!" She wagged her head daintily in
90
