“Ah, but you are Lydia. It's different. I have thoughts sometimes, my dear, that would not—but there! Let us speak of more agreeable things. Take off your coat—here, let me help you. What a lovely waist! You will pardon my costume, won't you, or rather the lack of one? I shan't dress until dinner-time. Sit down here beside me. No tea? A cigarette, then. No?”
“I never smoke, you remember,” said the other. She was looking at Yvonne now with a curious, new-found interest in her serious eyes. “I came to explain to Mr Brood how it happens that———”
“Poof! Never explain, my dear, never explain anything to a man!” cried Yvonne, lighting a cigarette. The flare of the match in the partially darkened room lit up her face with merciless candour. Lydia was conscious once more of the unusual pallor and a certain haggardness about the dark eyes.
“But he is so eager to complete the———”
“Do you forgive me for what I said to you last night?” demanded Yvonne, sitting down beside the girl on the chaise longue. The interruption was rude, perhaps, but it was impossible to resent it, so appealing was the expression in the offender's eyes.
“It was so absurd, Mrs Brood, that I have scarcely given it a moment's thought. Of course, I was hurt at the time. It was so unjust to Mr Brood. It was———”
“It is like you to say that!” cried Yvonne. “You are splendid, Lydia. Will you believe me when I tell you that I love you—that I love you very dearly?”
Lydia looked at her in some doubt, and not without misgivings.
“I should like to believe it,” she said noncommittally.
“Ah, but you doubt it. I see. Well, I do not blame you. I have given you much pain, much distress. When I am far away you will be glad—you will be happy. Is not that so?”