Brook. “I really didn’t mean to speak—that is—you did it so awfully well, you know!”

“It’s the Italian way,” Clare answered, beginning to quarter the orange.

She felt that she could not exactly be silent after he had apologised for admiring her skill. But she remembered that she had felt some vanity in what she had been doing, and had done it with some unnecessary ostentation. She hoped that he would not say anything more, for the sound of his voice reminded her of what she had heard him say to the lady in white, and she hated him with all her heart.

But the young man was encouraged by her sufficiently gracious answer, and was already glad of what he had done.

“Do all Italians do it that way?” he asked boldly.

“Generally,” answered the young girl, and she began to eat the orange.

Brook took another from the dish before him.

“Let me see,” he said, turning it round and round. “You cut a slice off one end.” He began to cut the peel.

“Not too deep,” said Clare, “or you will cut into the fruit.”

“Oh—thanks, awfully. Yes, I see. This way?”

  He took the end off, and looked at her for approval. She nodded gravely, and then turned away her eyes. He made the two cuts round the peel, crosswise, and looked to her again, but she affected not to see him.

“Oh—might I ask you—” he began. She looked at his orange again, without a smile. “Please don’t think me too dreadfully rude,” he said. “But it was so pretty, and I’m tremendously anxious to learn. Was it this way?”

His fingers teased the peel, and it began to come off. He raised his eyes with another look of inquiry.

“Yes. That’s all right,” said Clare calmly.

She was going to look away again, when she reflected that since he was so pertinacious it would be better to see the operation finished once for all. Then she and her mother would get up and go away, as they had finished. But he wished to push his advantage.

“And now what does one do?” he asked, for the sake of saying something.

“One eats it,” answered 

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