The room was at once dainty and severe. A striped paper, brightened by a design of garlands, knots, and flowers à la Marie Antoinette, made a background for white furniture in the style of Louis XVI., modern and inexpensive, but carefully selected by Mrs. Masterman. The walls were further lightened by colored reprints of old French scenes, discreetly amorous, collected by Claude himself.
Thor stood for some seconds in front of the bed before the brother opened his eyes. More seconds passed while the younger gazed up at the elder. "What the dev—!" Claude began, sleepily.
But Thor broke in, promptly, "Claude, why didn't you ever tell me you knew Rosie Fay?"
Claude closed his eyes again. The expected had happened. Like Rosie, he resolved to meet the moment cautiously, creating no more opposition than he could help. "Why should I?" he parried, without hostility.
"Because I asked you, for one thing."
He opened his eyes. "When did you ever ask me?"
"At the bank; one day when I found you there. It must have been two months ago."
Claude stirred slightly under the bedclothes. "Oh, then."
"Yes, then. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't see how I could. What good would it have done, anyhow?"