"She died just when things were beginning to come our way," said Bramham.
CHAPTER XII
POPPY and Bramham were alone together as they had been many times before. The verandah being the coolest place, they were sitting there, on a low basket-lounge affair, in darkness, except for the streaks and squares of light that stretched through the open windows and door of the sitting-room, falling across the verandah and losing themselves in the massed greenery of the garden. The little red glow at the end of Bramham's cigar gave enough light at times for him to observe that upon the face of his companion the strained, tortured look which often haunted it, was getting full play under cover of the dimness. She laughed lightly, however, at his sallies as they talked—the disjointed intermittent conversation of people who are far from the subject under discussion.
By reason of the shortness of the lounge they were seated rather close together; so close, that when Bramham's arm, which was lying along the back of the sofa, slipped down, it, as a matter of course, touched her waist. Her face was averted, so that even if it had been light enough he could not see the troubled look that flashed across it. She sat perfectly still, however, and said nothing. It might be an accident—she would wait and see. But presently she felt personality and magnetism in the touch of that firm hand, lightly as it rested on her; and she knew that this was not an accident.
"Don't do that," she said; her manner was careless, but there was a timbre in her voice that chilled. Bramham instantly removed his hand.
"Why not?" he asked discontentedly.
"Because I don't care about it," she said, her tone pleasant and friendly again.
Bramham smoked a while. He was not at all offended, but he chose to pretend to be. His experience of women presently prompted him to make a remark which he had discovered they regarded in the nature of a taunt.
"I'm afraid you are very cold-blooded."