"Work will never fill your life, Poppy. You are the kind of girl who will live the wonderful stories that the other women write."
The lilac eyes in the troublante face opposite gave a sad long look into his; then fell. She shivered a little.
"Some wonderful stories are terrible, Luce," she said in a low voice.
When she rose from the table, he said:
"Come and smoke in the garden with me."
She turned her face away from him, staring vaguely at a picture on the wall.
"I don't care about the garden to-night, Luce. The drawing-room, if you like—but I am very tired."
"I shan't keep you long. There is something I want to say to you."
He followed the slim, upright figure walking with such weary grace and trailing her white chiffons behind her, to the drawing-room, where the lights were low, the windows open to the night scents, and the big chintz-covered chairs and sofas held out rose-clad arms to them. She went straight to one she knew well, and dropped into it, laying her cheek against the cool, shiny chintz. Close beside her was an open window, and Abinger came and stood in it, his face in profile to her, staring out into the darkness. His hands were clasped behind him tightly gripping a cigar which he had taken out but did not light. Poppy closed her eyes and the lids burned against them. She had a great longing to be alone with her thoughts. But Abinger had begun to speak.
"Now—about your going out, Poppy, and meeting people, and all that; my chief reason for being disturbed when you mentioned the thing the other day was that I was unprepared. I hadn't had time to think out what was the best plan for you—for us. Of course, you know—it was very well for you to travel all over the place as you have done as my sister; but the thing is, that it won't do here. I can't spring a sister on people who know that I haven't got one."