because life had given her much that she had desired. She was the mature cat on the cushion. She had an air of comfortable softness. Almost, she could refer to herself playfully as an old woman.
"I am greyer than you are, Stephen."
"You are older than I am."
"That's not quite so gallant."
She was firing blank shot at him, and the battle between them was now more restrained and less vivid, but Sorrell was aware of it as a battle. He was waiting for her to ask the inevitable question, and the fact that she did not ask it left him to meditate upon her tactics. He felt pretty sure of her objective.
"Have you been running this place for long?"
"About a year."
"You do it pretty well. I know something about hotels."
Judging by the labels on her trunk she did. Moreover, she could afford to stay at de luxe hotels. Messrs. Sampits and Duggan had behaved very generously.
"What time's dinner here, Stephen?"
Her voice was friendly. Her whole attitude suggested that they should agree to regard life as a humorous and ironical experience.
"Seven-thirty."
"Thanks."
Sorrell rose from his chair.
"Just a word,—do you mind addressing me as Mr. Sorrell."
"Not in the least. I am much more easy to get on with than I used to be. And you?"
He stood with his hands resting on the desk, and looking at her with deliberate steadfastness.
"I'm the boy's father."
An hour later returning from a wander in the Abbey beechwoods, Sorrell decided that he had acted wisely in hoisting his flag.
"Just as well let her know that I'm an enemy. I suppose it is fairly obvious what she is after. That grey in her hair. No,—I'm damned if I will let her meddle."
