"Eddie be damned! How are you, Polly?"
"Quite well, thank you, Vincent," she answered with simplicity.
"You’re looking better," he assured her in friendly manner. "And mamma?"
"Don’t be so provoking!" she cried, trying to be angry, but at heart, as one could plainly see, filled with idiotic admiration for this big, impudent son. "Don’t pretend to be so calm and cool! What are you going to tell Eddie?"
Angelica jumped up from her chair, and then sat down again. Vincent took no notice of her.
"Let’s have a drink," he said, and sat down beside his mother. "Ah! And now another!"
He was certainly theatrical, playing to his little audience the part of the idolized conqueror, the man to whom everything is permitted; but he did it well. He could carry it off; it was evident that he had them both in his pocket.
He talked to them with conscious mastery. His mother was silly and adoring; Polly, in spite of all her reserve and her deep and hidden resentment against him, couldn’t hide a sort of charmed interest. They listened to him and looked at him, while he, sprawled out in his chair, smoked a pipe and stared at the ceiling.
And then, suddenly, just for an instant, his falcon glance rested upon Angelica, upon the swarthy face that turned pale beneath it. Her heart stood still; she stared at his bold, careless face with a feeling that was almost like terror. She had never seen his like before, never seen so free and strong a spirit in any human creature.
She had met her match, and she knew it. She could never conquer him! It was a sensation unique in her life; never imagined before, never to be experienced again. She forgot herself completely, didn’t give a thought to the impression she might be making upon this man. She thought only of him, watched him, listened to him, in a sort of stupour.