"I am a spoiled child. I like to be humored," he said, with a smile that lighted his face into a subtle sweetness that first showed her how dangerously fascinating the master of Eden could be when he willed. "I want you to tell me, Miss Gordon, that you forgive my selfishness the other day, and that you will come to this room as freely as to any other room in the house. You will promise me, will you not? No one ever refuses _me_ anything!" "There is nothing to forgive--you had a right"--she said, incoherently. "If there was--and mind, I do not admit there was--I forgive you freely." "Thank you. And you will come?" "Sometimes--perhaps," she stammered. He pulled at his dark mustache impatiently. "I must have a more definite promise than that," he said. "I am used to having my way about everything." Though the words were arrogant, the tone was kind. He was thoroughly in earnest. She hesitated. She did not want to be drawn into such a promise, standing too much in awe of the stately master of Eden. "You will not promise," he said, piqued. "Very well. But you are the first woman who ever refused a request of St. Leon Le Roy's. Your forgiveness was only half hearted." He was more vexed than she knew. His wonderful condescension had not borne the fruit he expected. He leaned back in his chair with his elbow on the table, and pulled at his dark mustache with his shapely fingers, the costly diamond on his hand flashing luridly. "What a stubborn little mite it is to refuse to humor me," he thought to himself in displeasure. While the small object of his displeasure watched the door with longing eyes, yearning to escape from the oppressive dignity of his presence, she felt herself growing crimson under his cold, proud gaze. "You have not asked me yet if I saw your parents," he said, after some minutes of that oppressive silence. "It is coming now," thought the small culprit in despair, and she felt guiltily that the color was all fading out of her cheeks under those watchful eyes. She could only stammer, faintly, "Did you?" To her infinite joy and relief, he answered in the negative. "No, I did not see them. I called twice, but at both times they were out--once driving in the park, and again attending a reception." "You do not look sorry, Miss Gordon, although it was purely out of courtesy to you that I went there." "Indeed, I am very sorry," she murmured, but she could not make her face look so. His words were so great a relief to her that she could not look disappointed. He did not tell her how disappointed he was. He would not have owned to himself that he had hoped to hear something about that lover from whom they had separated her. He would even have liked to have seen him. It was a new thing for the _blasé_, world-weary St. Leon Le Roy to feel curious over anything; but he had a great deal of curiosity over the man whom Beatrix Gordon loved. "I should like to know if he is worthy of her," was his excuse to his own heart.