“Well, that’s cool! How do you know what sort of women I’ve had experience of? Besides, a woman is a woman. The world—our world, that is—is full of Greek scholars who study Plato. Strictly under the rose. Society is only an incarnate wink.”
“I should put that into the comedy,” sneered Matthew.
“It’s a quotation from it,” laughed Herbert. “Had you there, my boy.”
It nearly came to a quarrel. But Herbert good-naturedly said he must save Matthew from himself, and he fervently hoped his cousin would not confide in any more women. “You can’t syndicate a secret,” he said, sternly.
At the house they had left, things were equally disturbed. Mrs. Wyndwood retired at once to bed, throwing herself upon it in her clothes; and her delicate white shoulders, which, like her emotions, had no need to be covered up now, rose and fell spasmodically. After a while she got up, bathed her eyes again, in fresh water this time, and went into Olive’s room. Miss Regan was brushing her dusky tresses savagely. She had sent her maid to bed.
“Nice hours,” she growled.
“You’ll catch cold, dear,” Eleanor replied, gently, for a window was wide open at the bottom.
“Nonsense, Nor,” said Olive, petulantly. “I should like to sleep on the beach.”
“What, in this costume?”
“One bathes in less. Still, while you’re here—”