“It isn't a matter of what you wish but of what I say.” She smiled. She knew that Chilcote with a cigarette between his lips was infinitely more tractable than Chilcote sitting idle, and she had no intention of ignoring the knowledge.
But Loder caught at her words. “Before you ordered me to smoke,” he said, “you told me to give you some advice. Your first command must have prior claim.” He grasped unhesitatingly at the less risky theme.
She looked up at him. “You're always nicer when you smoke,” she persisted, caressingly. “Light a cigarette—and give me one.”
Loder's mouth became set. “No,” he said, “we'll stick to this advice business. It interests me.”
“Yes—afterwards.”
“No, now. You want to find out why this Englishman from Italy was at your sister's party, and why he disappeared?”
There are times when a malignant obstinacy seems to affect certain people. The only answer Lillian made was to pass her hand over Loder's waistcoat, and, feeling his cigarette-case, to draw it from the pocket.
He affected not to see it. “Do you think he recognized you in that tent?” he insisted, desperately.
She held out the case. “Here are your cigarettes. You know we're always more social when we smoke.”
In the short interval while she looked up into his face several ideas passed through Loder's mind. He thought of standing up suddenly and so regaining his advantage; he wondered quickly whether one hand could possibly suffice for the taking out and lighting of two cigarettes. Then all need for speculation was pushed suddenly aside.