“The younger, the better,” she said. “Look at me!” Her burning eyes were troubling and suggestive. Baird found himself trying to gather himself together. He assumed the natural air of kindly remonstrance.
“Oh, come,” he said. “Don’t take that tone. It is unfair to all of us.”
Her reply was certainly rather a startling one.
“Very well then,” she responded. “Look at yourself. If you had died as young as she did——”
He looked at her, conscious of a little coldness creeping over his body. She was usually lighter when they were not entirely alone. Just now, in the midst of this commonplace, exceedingly middle-class evening party, with the Larkins, the Downings, and the Burtons chattering, warm, diffuse, and elate, about him, she stirred him with a little horror—not horror of herself, but of something in her mood.
“Do you think I am such a bad fellow?” he said.
“No,” she answered. “Worse, poor thing. It is not the bad fellows who produce the crudest results. But I did not call you here to tell you that you were bad or good. I called you to speak about Lucien Latimer. When you go to him—you are going to him?”
“To-morrow.”
“Then tell him to come and see me.”
“I will tell him anything you wish,” said Baird. “Is there anything else?”