"Will you be so good, Miss Killigrew, as to tell me why you Americans call a palace like this—a cottage?" Lord Monckton's voice was pleasing, with only a slight accent.
"I'm sure I do not know. If it were mine, I'd call it a villa."
"Quite properly."
"Do you like Americans?"
"I have no preference for any people. I prefer individuals. I had much rather talk to an enlightened Chinaman than to an unenlightened white man."
"I am afraid you are what they call blasé."
"Perhaps I am not quite at ease yet. I was buffeted about a deal in the old days."
Lord Monckton dropped back into the wicker chair, in the deep shadow. Kitty did not move. She wondered what Thomas was doing. (Thomas was rubbing ointment on his raw knuckles.)
"I am very fond of the sea," remarked Lord Monckton. "I have seen some odd parts of it. Every man has his Odyssey, his Aeneid."
Aeneid. It seemed to Kitty that her body had turned that instant into marble as cold as that under her palms.