"So other people have told me," she said. "But I have one peculiarity: I never wear furs. To me it is horrible that women can cover themselves with the skins of lovely creatures murdered for their pleasure: pathetic little faces and feet and tails dangling all over them! No. When I was a child I suffered too much from the cruelty of the strong to the weak to find joy in profiting from it."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Jack. "I've thought sometimes of that sort of thing. But I didn't suppose it ever occurred to women, even the tenderest ones I've known."
"The women you have known haven't had childhoods like mine," said Lyda. "Yet I hoped you'd not be one to make fun of my feeling. Another thing: I do not eat meat for the same reason. You will see, at supper. But you shall have some, so don't be discouraged!"
As she spoke, she smiled, and Jack realized that it was the first time he had seen her smile. That was strange! Or, it would have been strange in another woman. Now he saw that it would be more strange, altogether out of keeping with this character voluntarily opening itself to him, if she laughed or smiled often.
Jack had obeyed a gesture of hers, and laid the faintly perfumed cloak on a sofa. Lyda wore a dress simple enough for the first dinner-gown of a schoolgirl: grey and short—almost "skimpy," yet somehow perfect, without a single touch of trimming or a jewel. "Shall we go into the dining room?" she asked. "Supper will be ready. It always is. I never have it announced unless I've a party. To-night it's only you and me. You'll not mind?"
"Mind!" The word spoke itself with a boyish sincerity that Jack could not have pretended. "I didn't dare dream——"
She led the way through open sliding doors to an adjoining room, not turning her head to listen as she let Jack push the half-drawn portières aside. What a divine back she had, and what dimples in the delicate, flat shoulder-blades! An almost overpowering desire gripped Jack to kiss the white neck just where a knot of shining red hair was kept in place by a jade pin. He would no more have ventured upon a liberty with this creature of unfathomed reserves than he would have thrown himself into the cage of a tigress. All the same, he had definitely "lost his head." He knew that he would have sacrificed Juliet and Pat for this girl, not deliberately, not through conviction, but because he couldn't help himself if it came to a choice!
In the octagon-shaped room where its late mistress had given famous dinners for eight—never less, never more—a small table was laid and lit with shaded candles, but no servants were there. Violets were scattered on the lace table-cover, the only flower decorations. For the guest there were several elaborate cold dishes and champagne in ice; for the hostess, brown bread and a jug of milk! When she saw Jack look at this, Lyda laughed out aloud.
"I never take anything else at night," she explained. "I suppose I'm a queer person. Probably you're thinking me odd in many ways: for one, to have you alone with me at supper. I've a companion who lives with me, Madame Lemercier, a nice woman. But I do what I wish without thinking of conventions, if I hurt no one. People say so many things about me, they can say no worse, whatever I do! That's partly why I act as I please. Yet I think I'd do the same without an excuse. I invited you because I want to talk with you alone; no Madame Lemercier; no servants. I'll wait on you myself."
"Not that!" said Manners. "You must let me wait on you!"