But Noel remained standing.
“What have you been talking of? Love and Chinese lanterns, or only me?”
At those words Fort, who was drawing the last curtain, turned round; his tall figure was poised awkwardly against the wall, his face, unsuited to diplomacy, had a look as of flesh being beaten. If weals had started up across it, Noel would not have been surprised.
He said with painful slowness:
“I don't exactly know; we had hardly begun, had we?”
“The night is young,” said Leila. “Go on while I just take off my things.”
She rose with the cigarette between her lips, and went into the inner room. In passing, she gave Noel a look. What there was in that look, the girl could never make clear even to herself. Perhaps a creature shot would gaze like that, with a sort of profound and distant questioning, reproach, and anger, with a sort of pride, and the quiver of death. As the door closed, Fort came right across the room.
“Go to her;” cried Noel; “she wants you. Can't you see, she wants you?”
And before he could move, she was at the door. She flew downstairs, and out into the moonlight. The taxi, a little way off, was just beginning to move away; she ran towards it, calling out:
“Anywhere! Piccadilly!” and jumping in, blotted herself against the cushions in the far corner.