He laughed. "Surely you are accustomed to being looked at!"
"With reverence," she supplemented, "not criticism! You have the eye of a calculating apothecary. I believe you regard everybody you meet in the light of a possible patient."
"Naturally," said Max. "I suppose even you are mortal."
"Oh, yes, I shall die some day like the rest of you," she answered flippantly. "But I shan't have you by my death-bed. I shouldn't think you had ever seen anybody die, have you?"
"Why not?" said Max.
"Nobody could with you standing by. You're too vital, too electric. I picture you with your back against the door and your arms spread out, hounding the poor wretch back into the prison-house."
Max got up abruptly and moved to the window. "You have a vivid imagination," he said.
She laughed, drawing her fingers idly across the strings of her mandolin.
"Quite nightmarishly so sometimes. It's rather a drawback for some things. How are you enjoying that book of mine? Do you appreciate the Arabian Nights' flavour in modern literature?"
"It's a bit rank, isn't it?" said Max.