"I have to drag answers from you. Do you dislike this sort of talk? Perhaps you think me indiscreet, impudent; but I like to get my bearings. It saves bother. You can ask me anything—anything, if, if you regard me as a friend."
"I do," he said hastily; but he asked no questions.
"I don't quite understand you," she said slowly; "and of course you don't understand me. I am sure, judging from your book, your play, and—and your face, that you have an extravagant admiration for what you think to be good women. Is it not so? You needn't take the trouble to say 'yes.' And I'm only a good—sort. I have a sound body, of which I take the greatest care, and a sane mind; but I was born without a soul. Enfin, the conclusion is inevitable—for me—I do not believe in the soul but you do?"
"I did," he answered.
She offered him a cigarette, and lit one herself, as the Sphinx-like butler brought coffee and liqueurs. The luncheon had been very simple. Sipping her coffee, the actress began to talk of Fenella.
"You wrote the part, you say, for me; but you have drawn Fenella from life."
Mark denied this.
"You may have done it subconsciously, but you've done it. Now tell me, have you worked out the technical details? Have you estimated the probable expense?"
"I suppose the adequate mounting of it will be costly."
"Between three and four thousand pounds," said Mrs. Perowne carelessly.