He tried to laugh, and the laugh failed him.
"I am almost afraid of you," he said.
She considered him quaintly.
"Smithy would say you were quite right to be afraid. And Smithy would be right, too. I am dangerous."
"And I am a believer in the theory which bids us 'live dangerously,'" he retorted more lightly.
"But with you the theory would work out as self-sacrifice—with me it would mean the sacrifice of others." She drew a lounge chair out on to the verandah and sat down with a little sigh of relief. "How tired I am! The D minor valse always tired me—not my body—that doesn't matter—but the invisible spirit which makes a single step a divine thing. Mr. Meredith would call it the soul, if he could connect his speciality with anything so vulgar and mundane." She laughed and snuggled herself back among the cushions. "Anyhow, my soul has danced and my soul is tired," she announced contentedly.
Tristram remained standing. He was looking down at her profile with a puzzled intentness.
"Yes," he admitted, "very tired."
"That means—I'm looking ugly?" she suggested.
"No," he answered, abruptly.