“What a lot of people must have been writing to you, Prosper!”
He did not hear her. He was greedy of eye and fingertips, searching written sheet after sheet. He was flushed along the cheek-bones and a little pale about the lips. Joan stood there, her hands hanging, her head bent, staring up and out at him from under her brows. She looked, in this attitude, rather dangerous.
Prosper sped through his mail, made an odd gesture of desperation, sat still a moment staring, his brilliant, green-gray eyes gone dull and blank, then he gave himself a shuddery shake, pulled a small parcel from under the papers, and held it out to Joan. He smiled.
“Something for you, leopardess,” he said—he had told her his first impression of her.
She took the box haughtily and walked with it over to her chair. But he came and kissed her.
“Jealous of my mail? You foolish child. What a girl-thing you are! It doesn’t matter, does it, how we train you or leave you untrained, you’re all alike, you women, under your skins. Open your box and thank me prettily, and leave matters you don’t understand alone. That’s the way to talk, isn’t it?”
She flushed and smiled rather doubtfully, but, at sight of his gift, she forgot everything else for a moment. It was a collar of topaz and emerald set in heavy silver. She was awe-struck by its beauty, and went, after he had fastened it for her, to stand a long while before the glass looking at it. She wore her yellow dress cut into a V at the neck and the jewels rested beautifully at the base of her long, round throat, faintly brown like her face up to the brow. The yellow and the green brought out all the value of her grave, scarlet lips, the soft, even tints of her skin, the dark lights and shadows of her hair and eyes.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “It’s wonderful. I love it.”
All the time very grave and still, she took it off, put it on its box, and laid it on the mantel. Then she went out of doors.
Prosper hurried to the window and saw her walk out to the garden they had made and begin her work. He was puzzled by her manner, but presently shrugged the problem of her mood away and went back to his mail. That night he finished his novel and got it ready for the publisher.