“Would you rather?” she said.
He looked at her with sardonic yellow eyes.
“If you want,” he said, the awkward, derisive smile curling his lips and showing his teeth.
She had a moment of sheer panic. Was he just stupid and bestial? The thought went clean through her. His yellow eyes watched her sardonically. It was the clean modelling of his dark, other-world face that decided her—for it sent the deep spasm across her.
“I’d like you to stay,” she said.
A smile of triumph went over his face. Madame watched him stonily as she stood beside her chair, one hand lightly balanced on her hip. Alvina was reminded of Kishwégin. But even in Madame’s stony mistrust there was an element of attraction towards him. He had taken his cigarette case from his pocket.
“On ne fume pas dans le salon,” said Madame brutally.
“Will you put your coat in the passage?—and do smoke if you wish,” said Alvina.
He rose to his feet and took off his overcoat. His face was obstinate and mocking. He was rather floridly dressed, though in black, and wore boots of black patent leather with tan uppers. Handsome he was—but undeniably in bad taste. The silver ring was still on his finger—and his close, fine, unparted hair went badly with smart English clothes. He looked common—Alvina confessed it. And her heart sank. But what was she to do? He evidently was not happy. Obstinacy made him stick out the situation.
Alvina and Madame went upstairs. Madame wanted to see the dead James. She looked at his frail, handsome, ethereal face, and crossed herself as she wept.