“We have all heard of the magic womanly touch which brings divine order into a bachelor’s dreary untidy chambers,” he pattered impudently. “But the reality is beyond all expectation. For pity’s sake, Gillian, let us go to a hotel for the rest of our lives. What have you done with my poor Silvester?”
“Your valet, adoring me with every breath he draws, has gone out to pick some wild flowers for me to arrange on our dinner table.... You shall have your Patmore angel-in-the-house all right! Going, Antonia?”
“Miss Verity is hating me too much for perfect comfort,” murmured Pandos with humorous resignation.
She flashed him back look for look, and went out.
... Then the man crossed the room and knelt beside the packing-case and thrust his head in Gillian’s lap ... his dark sloe eyes worshipped her; his nerves, of matted vibrating wires, were lulled to perfect rest—perfect content.... No strain between these two, of pretence or concealment or fear—Gillian had taken him for what he was.
CHAPTER III
I
“If it gets any hotter, I shall be found melted down in one of my own crucibles,” Gillian wailed, to the accidental party of Deb, Nell and Antonia, who had flopped in to see her after a succession of stifling days at the latter end of July.