It had acted on her like some philtre.
He begged that she would go on with her work; and she got the dish of
strawberries, and began stemming them while he talked.
It was much easier talking or listening to him while she was so occupied.
She had never enjoyed anything so much in her life. She was not clever,
like Christine, but she had admiration of ability, and was obedient to
the charm of temperament. Whenever Ferrol had met her he had lavished
little attentions on her, had said things to her that carried weight far
beyond their intention. She had been pleased at the time, but they had
had no permanent effect.
Now everything he said had a different influence: she felt for the first
time that it was not easy to look into his eyes, and as if she never
could again without betraying--she knew not what.
So they sat there, he talking, she listening and questioning now and
then. She had placed the bottle of liqueur and the seed-cakes at his
elbow on the windowsill; and as if mechanically, he poured out a
glassful, and after a little time, still another, and at last, apparently
unconsciously, poured her out one also, and handed it to her. She shook
her head; he still held the glass poised; her eyes met his; she made a
feeble sort of protest, then took the glass and drank off the liqueur in
little sips.
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