"Quicklime!" she murmured with a cold thrill.
Becoming doubly vigilant she sat down in one of the chairs and prepared herself for emergencies.
On the table stood a decanter partly filled with wine, and beside it some glasses. Observant of everything Lorelie saw that though the smooth surface of the table was overlaid with a coating of dust, the display of glass exhibited not a trace of it; evidently the wine was of recent introduction—perhaps placed there specially for her use.
"What! you have wine here? Pour me out a glass, Ivar."
Speaking in the tone of a woman who suspects nothing she reclined in her seat in a graceful attitude, extending a glass towards Ivar, and watching him keenly from beneath the lashes of her half-closed eyes. Her husband, his face as white as a ghost's, filled her glass, and setting down the decanter, breathed hard. The earl looked on with seeming indifference.
With steady motion Lorelie lifted the glass, taking a longer time over the action than was necessary, as if even the foretaste of drinking were a pleasure not to be curtailed. Ivar was watching her with an expression the like of which she had never before seen on his face.
Her lips touched the edge of the glass, and there rested a moment: and then, without having tasted the wine, she raised the glass and held it between her half-closed eyes and the lamp above, an action that displayed to the full the beauty of her rounded arm and bust.
"How bright and clear it is!" she murmured, in a softly modulated voice. "By the way," she added, suddenly opening her eyes wide, "what wine do you call this?"
"A choice vintage. Malvazia, one of the rarest of the Madeiras," replied the earl.