The voice and words came to him with great distinctness, and as they came one uncertainty passed forever from his mind—the question as to what relation she and Chilcote held to each other. With the realization came the thought of Eve, and in the midst of his own difficulty his face hardened.
Lillian ignored the coldness. Taking his hand, she smiled. “You're unusually punctual,” she said. “But your hands are cold. Come closer to the fire.”
Loder was not sensible that his hands were cold, but he suffered himself to be drawn forward.
One end of the couch was in firelight, the other in shadow. By a fortunate arrangement of chance Lillian selected the brighter end for herself and offered the other to her guest. With a quick sense of respite he accepted it. At least he could sit secure from detection while he temporized with fate.
For a moment they sat silent, then Lillian stirred. “Won't you smoke?” she asked.
Everything in the room seemed soft and enervating—the subdued glow of the fire, the smell of roses that hung about the air, and, last of all, Lillian's slow, soothing voice. With a sense of oppression he stiffened his shoulders and sat straighter in his place.
“No,” he said, “I don't think I shall smoke.”
She moved nearer to him. “Dear Jack,” she said, pleadingly, “don't say you're in a bad mood. Don't say you want to postpone again.” She looked up at him and laughed a little in mock consternation.
Loder was at a loss.
Another silence followed, while Lillian waited; then she frowned suddenly and rose from the couch. Like many indolent people, she possessed a touch of obstinacy; and now that her triumph over Chilcote was obtained, now that she had vindicated her right to command him, her original purpose came uppermost again. Cold or interested, indifferent or attentive, she intended to make use of him.