Scott's brief advice of the morning was scattered from her memory like feathers before the wind.

She had no memory.

She lived only in this burning splendid ardour of a moment.
She drank her tea mechanically, finding nothing enigmatic in his silence.
The direct look of his blue eyes discomfited her strangely, but it was a sublime discomfiture--the discomfiture of the moth around the flame.

She longed to meet it, but did not wholly dare.

With veiled glances she yielded to the attraction, not yet bold enough for complete surrender.
He spoke at last, and she started.
"Well?
Am I forgiven ?" The nonchalant enquiry sent the blood in another hot wave to her cheeks.
Had she ever presumed to be angry with this godlike person?
"For what ?" she asked, her voice very low.
He leaned towards her.