Whiston was silent for a moment.
“Fool!” he said. “An’ what’s it got to do with pearls?—and how can he say ‘wear these for me’ when there’s only one? He hasn’t got the brain to invent a proper verse.”
He screwed the slip of paper into a ball and flung it into the fire.
“I suppose he thinks it’ll make a pair with the one last year,” she said.
“Why, did he send one then?”
“Yes. I thought you’d be wild if you knew.”
His jaw set rather sullenly.
Presently he rose, and went to wash himself, rolling back his sleeves and pulling open his shirt at the breast. It was as if his fine, clear-cut temples and steady eyes were degraded by the lower, rather brutal part of his face. But she loved it. As she whisked about, clearing the table, she loved the way in which he stood washing himself. He was such a man. She liked to see his neck glistening with water as he swilled it. It amused her and pleased her and thrilled her. He was so sure, so permanent, he had her so utterly in his power. It gave her a delightful, mischievous sense of liberty. Within his grasp, she could dart about excitingly.
He turned round to her, his face red from the cold water, his eyes fresh and very blue.
“You haven’t been seeing anything of him, have you?” he asked roughly.
“Yes,” she answered, after a moment, as if caught guilty. “He got into the tram with me, and he asked me to drink a coffee and a Benedictine in the Royal.”
