“I am afraid that your knowledge of that event is somewhat obscured. Still, I understand.”
She lifted the wine-glass again, and then he noticed her hand. It was large, white and strong; it was not the hand of a woman who dallied, who idled in primrose paths.
“Tell me, what is it you wish? You interest me, at a moment, too, when I do not want to be interested. Are you really in trouble? Is there anything I can do ... barring the taxicab?”
She twirled the glass, uneasily. “I am not in actual need of assistance.”
“But you spoke peculiarly regarding loneliness.”
“Perhaps I like the melodrama. You spoke of the Ambigu-Comique.”
“You are on the stage?”
“Perhaps.”
“The Opera?”
“Again perhaps.”