“It's all very chaste,” she told him, “but terribly commonplace. I think that I don't care to hear the details.” She addressed herself to what remained of the luncheon. “Have some more sauce,” she advised coolly, then rang. “The pudding, Jane,” she directed.
“You have been wonderfully kind—” he began. But she halted him abruptly. “We'll drop all that,” she pronounced, and deliberately lit a cigarette.
A genuine admiration for her possessed Anthony; he recognized that she was extraordinarily good to look at; he had had no idea that so vigorous a spirit could have burned behind a becoming dress by Paret. He realized with a faint regret, eminently masculine, that other men, men of moment, would find her irresistibly attractive. Already it seemed incredible that she had ever been familiar, intimate, tender, with him.
“You will be wanting to leave,” she said, rising; “—whenever you like. I have written for a—a chauffeur. I think you should have, it's twenty-five dollars, isn't it?”
“Not twenty-five cents,” he returned.
“I shouldn't like to force your delicate sensibilities.” She left the room. He caught a last glimpse of her firm, young profile; her shining, coppery hair; her supple, upright carriage.
L
IN his room he assembled the battered clothing in which Rufus Hardinge had discovered him, preparatory to changing from his present more elaborate garb, but a sudden realization of the triviality of that course, born of the memory of Annot's broad disposition, halted him midway. Making a hasty bundle of his personal belongings he descended from the tower room. Through an open door he could see the still, white face of the biologist looming from a pillow, and the trim form of a nurse.