Lady Persimmon lolled back in her chair:
“Nevertheless,” she said, “I should love, just for a little while, to live in Bohemia.”
Pangbutt laughed. It had been borne in upon him that this gentle beauty had deft resource and a somewhat confirmed habit in steering awkward corners. He came back to argument:
“But Bohemia, too, has its shabby side,” he said—“there is spite even in Bohemia.... I’m afraid I’m watering down some of your illusions, Lady Persimmon.”
“Ah, it’s quite easy to see that you were not long in Bohemia—not long enough to be infected with its home-sickness.”
The butler passed stealthily out of the room on silent feet—and the catch on the door faintly clicked.
The pretty woman nestled back amongst her cushions, and gazed through half-closed lids with languorous eyes at the man who poured out the tea near her feet.
“It’s so pleasant,” she said with a comfortable sigh, “to see the tea—the silver—the china. The fragrance of it all——”
He stopped, the silver teapot in his hand, and smiled:
“But there are no footmen in Bohemia—very little silver—very indifferent china.” He handed her a cup of tea. “They live as often as not upon imagination—and mad cow is their chiefest dish.”