"I'll order the car at eleven," he said, in a tone of aimless severity.
Lita was scooping a spoonful of juice out of the golden bowl of the grape-fruit. She seemed neither to heed nor to hear. Manford laid down his napkin and walked out of the room.
Lita threw back her head to let the liquid slip slowly down between her lips. Her gold-fringed lids fluttered a little, as if the fruit-juice were a kiss.
"When are you sailing?" Nona asked, reaching for the cigarette-lighter.
"Don't know. Next week, I shouldn't wonder."
"For any particular part of the globe?"
Lita's head descended, and she turned her chestnut-coloured eyes softly on her sister-in-law. "Yes; but I can't remember what it's called."
Nona was looking at her in silence. It was simply that she was so beautiful. A vase? No—a lamp now: there was a glow from the interior. As if her red corpuscles had turned into millions of fairy lamps...
Her glance left Nona's and returned to her plate. "Letters. What a bore! Why on earth don't people telephone?"
She did not often receive letters, her congenital inability to answer them having gradually cooled the zeal of her correspondents; of all, that is, excepting her husband. Almost every day Nona saw one of Jim's gray-blue envelopes on the hall table. That particular colour had come to symbolize to her a state of patient expectancy.