"Of course she can't help having that sort of hand," he hastened to add apologetically. "It's just a peculiarity."
Esther was repeating to herself that phrase, "the hands of the successful cocotte," which somehow seemed oddly illuminating. Lady Clifford's hands had a meaning for her now. The soft cushioned palms spelled love of luxury, the stumpy, curving fingers and talon-like nails indicated acquisitive greed. She could see them grasping, grasping…
"Ah, here are the cocktails."
She came to herself with a smile, and took the frosty glass which he held out to her.
"May we both get what we want!"
She touched her glass to his gaily and drank. Then with a flash of reminiscence she glanced across at Holliday, recalling the fact that a few weeks ago he had uttered exactly the same toast. What was it Holliday wanted? She had thought at the time it was something quite definite….
The meal proceeded happily, they laughed and chatted with a sense of exhilaration derived only in part from the champagne. Although they told each other many things, as on a former occasion, it was not what they said that mattered. Each was intensely absorbed in the other's personality; what counted was mutual attraction, which invested every commonplace with vibrant inner meanings. They forgot the life about them; it was as though they were marooned upon a tiny island in the midst of uncharted seas.
"Do you feel like dancing?"
The coffee, sending up a fragrant steam, was too hot to drink; the saxophones sounded an insinuating invitation.
"Do let's—I'm dying to!"