Sophy rose, and, going over to him, sat on the arm of the big chair.
"I want to talk to you about something, Cecil. Something very important. Will you be nice to me?"
She had yielded him her hand, and he was looking at it earnestly, turning it this way and that in his great fingers, which were covered between the knuckles with a light furze of reddish hair—playing with the rings that he had given her. Sophy hated these rings, but he insisted on her wearing them; he was proud of their beauty on the beauty of her white hand. There were three, a pink pearl, an emerald, a ruby.
As she spoke, he clutched the hand with which he had been toying and looked up at her.
"Eh?" he said. "What's up?"
"It's about you and Bobby, Cecil."
He put her hand back upon her knee.
"Oh, the tigress and her cub. I see."
"No, Cecil, you don't see. I don't want to be disagreeable. I only want to try to explain things to you."
"Your son's high priestess interpreter?"