Her plate was empty when at length very resolutely she looked up and
spoke. "Dick, I want you to understand one thing. I did not open that
parcel of yours. It was open when it came."
Instantly his eyes were upon her with merciless directness. "I gathered
that," he said.
She met his look unflinchingly, but her next words came with an effort.
"Then you can't--with justice--blame me for surprising your secret."
"I don't," he said.
"And yet--" She made a slight gesture of remonstrance, as if the piercing
brightness of his eyes were more than she could bear.
He pushed back his chair and rose. He came to her as she sat, bent over
her, his hand on her shoulder, and looked at her intently.
"Juliet," he said, "I don't like you with that stuff on your face. It
isn't--you."
She kept her face steadily upturned, enduring his look with no sign of
shrinking. "You are meeting--the real me--for the first
time--to-night," she said.
His mouth curved cynically. "I think not. I have never worshipped at the
shrine of a painted goddess."
Something rose in her throat and she put up a hand to hide it. "I doubt
if--Dene Strange--was ever capable of worshipping anything," she said.
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