“The others? They are away,” said Camelia vaguely.
“Rodrigg?”
“He comes back to-night, I think.”
“And Henge?” Perior asked it with a little hesitation. Of late he had wondered much about Arthur and Camelia. There was an effort in the unconscious aloofness of his voice.
“In London too.” Camelia looked clearly at him. No, she would not tell him now. The happy half-hour she must guard for them both. Her oblivion, his ignorance, would make a fairy-land. Let him think even that she had sent Arthur away finally. Arthur had no place in fairy-land.
“All the others are out,” she repeated, “golfing, calling, driving. But are you not glad to see me, even if I seem happier than strict consistency requires?”
“Yes, I am glad to see you.” Perior’s eyes showed the half-yielding, half-defiance of his perplexity. “But tell me, what is the matter? Don’t be so mysterious.”
“But tell me,” she returned, stepping backward, her skirt held out for displayal, “is not my dress pretty?”
“Very pretty.” Perior leaned back against the mantelpiece with an air of resignation. “Very exquisite.”
“Shall I dance for you?”