She sighed as one who had got through an exercise of considerable difficulty. Then, observing by certain signs that he had only, so to speak, removed the lid of his introspections and that the real contents of his mind would shortly spill, to be gathered up and replaced by her none too sure hands, she interjected hastily:
“You were telling me, Gordon, about a cousin of yours in Australia—she must certainly be interesting, and I’m just mad to hear about your relations. I like you, Gordon—a lot. There’s nothing about you that doesn’t fascinate me.”
She laid a gloved hand on his knee. No other woman could lay a hand, gloved or ungloved, on Gordon Selsbury’s knee without his calling for the police. But Heloise ... he laid his hand gently on hers.
“Diana? Well, really, I know nothing about her except that she had that tremendous affair with a fellow called Dempsi. I told you that. She’s very well off, I believe. I’ve taken a little notice of her—sent her a few books and a word or two of advice. I often think that a man’s advice is ever so much more acceptable to a young girl than a woman’s. When were we talking about her? Oh, of course, I remember! It was when we had that tremendous talk on the growth of the Ego....”
“Is she fair or dark?” Heloise nimbly blocked the road to metaphysics.
“I really don’t know. I had a letter from my aunt—her aunt also—just before the poor creature died. She said that Diana had forgotten Dempsi and wondered where she could get his photograph—the man is dead. Has it ever occurred to you, Heloise, how absurd are such terms as life and de——”
“Diana!” mused Heloise, aloud. “Poor little Australian girl. I should like to meet her, Gordon.”
Gordon shook his head, smiling gently.
“I cannot imagine anything less likely,” he said, “than your meeting her.”