The men lit another cigarette and talked casually.
CHAPTER VII.
FETISH
In the morning Gerald woke late. He had slept heavily. Pussum was still asleep, sleeping childishly and pathetically. There was something small and curled up and defenceless about her, that roused an unsatisfied flame of passion in the young man’s blood, a devouring avid pity. He looked at her again. But it would be too cruel to wake her. He subdued himself, and went away.
Hearing voices coming from the sitting-room, Halliday talking to Libidnikov, he went to the door and glanced in. He had on a silk wrap of a beautiful bluish colour, with an amethyst hem.
To his surprise he saw the two young men by the fire, stark naked. Halliday looked up, rather pleased.
“Good-morning,” he said. “Oh—did you want towels?” And stark naked he went out into the hall, striding a strange, white figure between the unliving furniture. He came back with the towels, and took his former position, crouching seated before the fire on the fender.
“Don’t you love to feel the fire on your skin?” he said.
“It is rather pleasant,” said Gerald.
“How perfectly splendid it must be to be in a climate where one could do without clothing altogether,” said Halliday.
“Yes,” said Gerald, “if there weren’t so many things that sting and bite.”