He looked at her in astonishment. “I’ve hardly said a word to her.”
She shook her head and passed towards the door. He spent some wretched days, wondering if he had offended her, and what the little yellow woman had been saying about him. He put the question as soon as he was seated at the tea-table in the dainty drawing-room of the tiny Mayfair house which the oddly assorted couple had taken for the season. Mrs. Wyndwood would not say, but Miss Regan cried out:
“Don’t make such a mystery, Nor; you’ll make the man think he’s accused of murder, or drinking his tea out of a saucer. The Polish priestess says she doesn’t like your auras—voilà tout!”
“What are auras?” he asked, relieved and puzzled.
“The Latin for airs, of course,” laughed Olive. “It’s her mystical way of saying you give yourself airs. Yes, you do. You’re disapproving of our furniture now. But it’s through Nor’s objecting to furniture that suited my complexion and vice versa. We compromised by getting furniture in discord with both our complexions. The beautiful photos you see all about you are mine—I mean my collection. They are actresses. I adore beautiful women. After what you told me about the unimportance of the likeness I shall consider them works of art. I have always thought that actresses’ photographs are intended as a protection against the curiosity of the public. But for them, actresses would be liable to be recognized and mobbed in the streets. Great Heavens! I’ve forgotten the scones.” And with this unexpected exclamation, Olive rushed out of the room.
“She would insist on baking scones herself,” Mrs. Wyndwood explained with an affectionate smile.
“She is deliciously odd,” he replied, laughing.
“Do you find her so? I’ve got used to her. There’s a monotony in the variety. Behind it all I see always this one fact—she’s the noblest creature in the world.”
He was touched by the enthusiastic tribute, so different from Olive’s amused estimate of her friend.
“You must find it very pleasant to live with her,” he said.