But she laughed merrily and led him to impersonal topics, talking rapidly, with a constant play of her slim, white hands. She allowed him no time for protestations. It was all bright, frivolous gossip of the day, with no hint of seriousness. As she talked, there was no sign that her ears were straining for an expected sound, or her flesh quivering with impatience.
At last he rose to go.
"You are the only woman I know," he remarked, as he looked at her with his easy and familiar glance, "who is never dull. How do you manage it?"
"Oh, it is not difficult," she answered. "To laugh is much easier than to cry."
"And much more agreeable. I detest a woman who weeps."
Her brilliant laugh rang out.
"And so do I," she said.
When he had gone, and the house door had closed after him, she crossed to the heavily hanging curtains, pushed them aside, and looked out.
Only dust and wind and gray streets and the sound of the footsteps of a passer-by. From out the blue mist a single light burst, then another and another. She held her head erect, a scornful smile curving her lips.
Again the bell rang, and again she quivered and started forward, listening to the steps that crossed the hall. The door opened.