Islington smiled, but not very gayly.
“And then I think it much better for us to part here under these frescos, don't you? Good by.”
She extended her long, slim hand.
“Out in the sunlight there, when my eyes were red, you were very anxious to look at me,” she added, in a dangerous voice.
Islington raised his sad eyes to hers. Something glittering upon her own sweet lashes trembled and fell.
“Blanche!”
She was rosy enough now, and would have withdrawn her hand, but Islington detained it. She was not quite certain but that her waist was also in jeopardy. Yet she could not help saying, “Are you sure that there isn't anything in the way of a young woman that would keep you?”
“Blanche!” said Islington in reproachful horror.
“If gentlemen will roar out their secrets before an open window, with a young woman lying on a sofa on the veranda, reading a stupid French novel, they must not be surprised if she gives more attention to them than her book.”
“Then you know all, Blanche?”