“You’re feverish, darling,” said Eleanor, troubled. “Don’t talk at random.”
“I’m talking straight, dear. Two Strangs to one Lavender. And what has become of Spirit, dearest? That used to come before Art and Nature!”
“And who said it doesn’t still?” Eleanor answered, deprecatingly. Then, with a passionate cry that set her beautiful bosom heaving, “My God, Olive, why do you misjudge me? Can’t you understand earnest seeking?” Tears came into her eyes and trickled down her face.
Olive kissed them away. “I’m a brute, Eleanor. The heat’s too much for both of us. Good-night!”
“Going to lie down, dearest?”
“No; going to bed.”
Matthew Strang had rung several times before he could gain admittance to his cousin’s studio. Herbert appeared in his shirt-sleeves, grinning and yawning.
“Tit for tat,” he said. “But I’m awfully glad you came, old man. I was just dreaming of you. By Jove, isn’t it hot?”
When Herbert said “old man,” in his caressing voice, Matthew became as clay in the hands of the potter. It seemed so good to have the friendship of this sunny being. He answered affectionately that it was hot.
“You haven’t seen this den before?” said Herbert. “Not so swell as yours. But then I’m hard up.”