"Did you?" said Wray, bewildered. "I—I came as soon as I could, Mrs. Cheyne. We had our cigars——"
"Oh, I know. Men have always been selfish—they always will be selfish. Cousin Cornelius is provincial to herd the men and women—like sheep—the ones in one pen, the others in another. There isn't a salon in Europe—a real salon—where the women may not smoke if they like."
"You want to smoke——"
"I'm famished—but the General doesn't approve——"
Wray had taken out his cigarette case. "Couldn't we find a spot?"
She rose and led the way through a short corridor to the conservatory, where they found a stone bench under a palm.
He offered her his case, and she lit the cigarette daintily, holding it by the very tips of her fingers, and steadying her hand against his own as Wray would have done with a man's. Wray did not speak. He watched her amusedly, aware of the extraordinary interest with which she invested his pet vice.
"Thanks," she said gratefully. Turning toward him then, she lowered her chin, opened her eyes, and looked straight into his.
"You know, you didn't come to me nearly as soon as I thought you would."
"I—I didn't know——"