"Nothing!" She swallowed painfully. "Of course it can't be. What name
did you say? I didn't hear it properly."
"Name?" repeated Heyst dazedly. "I only mentioned Morrison. It's the
name of that man of whom I've been speaking. What of it?"
"And you mean to say that he was your friend?"
"You have heard enough to judge for yourself. You know as much of our
connection as I know myself. The people in this part of the world
went by appearances, and called us friends, as far as I can remember.
Appearances--what more, what better can you ask for? In fact you can't
have better. You can't have anything else."
"You are trying to confuse me with your talk," she cried. "You can't
make fun of this."
"Can't? Well, no I can't. It's a pity. Perhaps it would have been the
best way," said Heyst, in a tone which for him could be called gloomy.
"Unless one could forget the silly business altogether." His faint
playfulness of manner and speech returned, like a habit one has schooled
oneself into, even before his forehead had cleared completely. "But why
are you looking so hard at me? Oh, I don't object, and I shall try not
to flinch. Your eyes--"
He was looking straight into them, and as a matter of fact had forgotten
all about the late Morrison at that moment.
"No," he exclaimed suddenly. "What an impenetrable girl you are Lena,
with those grey eyes of yours! Windows of the soul, as some poet has
said.
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