“He is busy. Come up to my room,” repeated Yvonne, somewhat imperiously.
As Lydia mounted the stairs she had a fair glimpse of the other's face. Always pallid—but of a healthy pallor—it was now almost ghastly. Perhaps it was the light from the window that caused it; Lydia was not sure, but a queer greenish hue overspread the lovely, smiling face. The lips were red, very red—redder than she had ever seen them. The girl suddenly recalled the face she had once seen of a woman who was addicted to the drug habit.
Mrs Brood met her at the top of the stairs. She was but half dressed. Her lovely neck and shoulders were now almost bare. Her hands were extended toward the visitor; the filmy lace gown hung loose and disregarded about her slim figure.
“Come in, dear. Shall we have tea? I have been so lonely. One cannot read the books they print nowadays. Such stupid things, aïe?”
She threw an arm about the tall girl, and Lydia was surprised to find that it was warm and full of a gentle strength. She felt her flesh tingle with the thrill of contact. Yes, it must have been the light from the window, for Yvonne's face was now aglow with the peculiar iridescence that was so peculiarly her own.
A door closed softly on the floor above them. Mrs Brood glanced over her shoulder and upward. Her arm tightened perceptibly about Lydia's waist.
“It was Ranjab,” said the girl, and instantly was filled with amazement. She had not seen the Hindu, had not even been thinking of him, and yet she was impelled by some mysterious intelligence to give utterance to a statement in which there was conviction, not conjecture.
“Did you see him?” asked the other, looking at her sharply.
“No,” admitted Lydia, still amazed. “I don't know why I said that.”
Mrs Brood closed her boudoir door behind them. For an instant she stood staring at the knob, as if expecting to see it turn.