"Are you going to have a child?" he asked incredulous. It seemed, to look at her, impossible, she was so young and so far in spirit from any childbearing.
She looked full into his face, and her dark, inchoate eyes had now a furtive look, and a look of a knowledge of evil, dark and indomitable. A flame ran secretly to his heart.
"Yes," she said. "Isn't it beastly?"
"Don't you want it?" he asked.
"I don't," she replied emphatically.
"But—" he said, "how long have you known?"
"Ten weeks," she said.
All the time she kept her dark, inchoate eyes full upon him. He remained silent, thinking. Then, switching off and becoming cold, he asked, in a voice full of considerate kindness:
"Is there anything we can eat here? Is there anything you would like?"
"Yes," she said, "I should adore some oysters."
"All right," he said. "We'll have oysters." And he beckoned to the waiter.
Halliday took no notice, until the little plate was set before her. Then suddenly he cried:
"Pussum, you can't eat oysters when you're drinking brandy."
"What has it got to do with you?" she asked.
"Nothing, nothing," he cried. "But you can't eat oysters when you're drinking brandy."
"I'm not drinking brandy," she replied, and she sprinkled the last drops of her liqueur over his face. He gave an odd squeal. She sat looking at him, as if indifferent.
"Pussum, why do you do that?" he cried in panic. He gave Gerald the impression that he was terrified of her, and that he loved his terror. He seemed to relish his own horror and hatred of her, turn it over and extract every flavour from it, in real panic. Gerald thought him a strange fool, and yet piquant.
"But, Pussum," said another man, in a very small, quick Eton voice, "you promised not to hurt him."
"I haven't hurt him," she answered.
