He had almost challenged her to deal a blow that should crack that impervious shell of his.
She glanced across at him beneath her lashes, and in an instant all thought of personal dignity was wiped out by the look of profound pain that she surprised in his face.

Her shrewd question, uttered almost unthinkingly in the cut-and-thrust of repartee, had got home somewhere on an old wound.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed contritely.
She could only assume that he had not heard her low-voiced apology, for, when he turned to her again, he addressed her exactly as though she had not spoken.
"Try some of these little hot cakes," he said, tendering a plateful.
"They are quite one of Mrs.Judson's specialties." With amazing swiftness he had reassumed his mask.

The bright, hazel eyes were entirely free from any hint of pain, and his voice held nothing more than conventional politeness.

Sara meekly accepted one of the cakes in question, and for a little while the conversation ran on stereotyped lines.
Presently, when tea was over, he offered her a cigarette.
"I have not forgotten your tastes, you see," he said, smiling.
"I do smoke," she admitted.

"But"-- the confession came with a rush, and she did not quite know what impelled her to make it--"I smoked--that day in the train--out of sheer defiance." "I was sure of it," he responded in amused tones.