‘Just the kind of life that suits me. I’m my own mistress.’
There was a suggested allusion in the sly tone of the last phrase; but Nancy, thinking her own thoughts, did not perceive it. As the servant had left them alone, they could now talk freely. Beatrice, by her frequent glance of curiosity, seemed to await some explanation of a visit so unlooked-for.
‘How are things going with you?’ she asked at length, tapping the ash of her cigarette over a plate.
‘I want something to do,’ was the blunt reply.
‘Too much alone—isn’t that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just what I thought. You don’t see him often?’
Nancy had ceased her pretence of smoking, and leaned back. A flush on her face, and something unwonted in the expression of her eyes,—something like a smile, yet touched with apathy,—told of physical influences which assisted her resolve to have done with scruple and delicacy. She handled her wine-glass, which was half full, and, before answering, raised it to her lips.
‘No, I don’t see him often.’
‘Well, I told you to come to me if I could be any use. What’s your idea?’