“I don’t care for the smell. I ... just don’t care for it. And I was out.”
“Where?”
Aureole smiled; a slow mutinous smile. “You grow more like Oliver every day.”
“I hope so,” quoth Stuart virtuously; “he’s a better man than I am. Wouldn’t it be as well to see in future that your guests aren’t poisoned as well as starved?”
“Dear man, it would bore me.”
He strove to be moderate: “Quite so. But you’ve only five weeks still to run here, and confound it, Aureole! surely it’s more fun to get through a stodgy job decently and with credit, than just bungle it. Even if you hate it, it’s more fun.”
“Our ideas of fun differ,” she laughed, impenitent. And then Stuart realized with horror that she was looking remarkably pretty. He knew enough of neurotic women to be assured that they did not sparkle and bloom unless danger was imminent. He did not know enough of them to refrain from making a mistake in his next remark:
“I’ve reason to believe your husband will be here shortly. He won’t be over-pleased to fork out, among other things, for thirteen doctor’s bills on attending thirteen bilious attacks.”
“Damn doctors!” she stamped her foot viciously. “Damn bilious attacks and fish and boarding-houses and husbands and ... and you....” She fled to Bertram, awaiting her among the pines. A soft drizzling moisture filled the air. In the garden she passed Sebastian and Letty, whose mission it seemed to leave themselves lying about to act as goads in critical moments.—“Damn lovers....”
—“Lady Auburn-hair, this is almost our good-bye. In a very few days——”