He thrust his burning cigarette through the hole in the matting. He felt the pressure of her cigarette upon it. He heard her quickened breathing. He saw the glow brightening through the mat as the tobacco kindled.
"Thanks," she said softly, with a little half-laugh. "How did the play go?"
"The play?" Roger stammered. "It was—— Do you mean—— Which play do you mean?"
"Your play; The Roman Matron. You are Mr. Naldrett, aren't you? I met you once for a moment at a house in Chelsea. At Mrs. Melyard's, three years ago. I was just going."
He remembered that hectic beauty Mrs. Melyard. She was like a green snake. She used to receive her intimates (she had no friends) in a room hung with viridian. There were green couches, green-shaded lights, a gum burning greenly in a brazier with green glass sides. She herself was dressed in green, glittering, metallic scales, which made a noise like serpent's hissing as she glided. "Nothing is really interesting except vice," was the only phrase which he could remember of Mrs. Melyard's conversation. She was a feverish character, explained by inherited phthisical taint. Melyard collected tsuba, and fenced archæologically at the Foil Club. He was the best rapier and dagger man in England.
"You are Mrs. Templeton?" he asked. "I remember a lady at Mrs. Melyard's."
"I wasn't married then," she said quickly. "How did the play go?"
"It was booed off."
"I'm sorry," she said. She meant "I am sorry that I asked."
Roger wondered how he could get away. It depended on the lady.