“I think not.”
“Is it then so odious to you?”
“Perhaps.”
He flung the end of his cigarette into the fireplace and, standing up, walked across to her.
“You are dazzlingly beautiful to-night, Angela.”
“You say that almost every night.”
“Why not? A truth cannot too often be reiterated.”
She ran her white fingers over the notes of the piano, producing a rippling arpeggio that was like running water.
“Compliments are cheap.”
“You think that is a mere compliment? No, you know it isn’t. You know I love you madly, desperately, Angela. Let us cease this—acting. 104 Aren’t we made for each other? I’m tired of London—tired of everything but you.”