As in one whine they put the formal demand: “To what futile labors, O King, shall we consign these recruits?”
Satan shaded his eyes with one hand. He appeared not to be thinking so much as looking. As if from under a blower, the inflammable imagination of him glowed—glowed on Dolores Trent.
The prime minister, on returning, settled in his chair and claimed the keen ear which, through ages past, had considered his suggestions.
“This modern Delilah, Excellency, I consider unique in that she cannot be classed by the naked eye. She is not, so to speak, a type. Might I call your attention to the tact with which she maintains silence, while you——”
“You might not. I detest to have fine bits of the play diagramed by my seat-mate. Have I or have I not eyes of my own?”
“But, Sire——”
“But the buts! Haven’t I paid at least as much admission as you?”
All eyes focused upon the Master, except those of the ancient hypocrite. His settled appreciatively upon her who indeed had distracted the royal resentment from himself. The pause which lapsed he had the temerity to break, although in a vague voice, as if to himself:
“Hell to be lonely.... Some sympathy soul.... Boss looker like you.... Try anything once or twice.”
“Try anything once and forever except hoodwinking me.”