“No.” Loder tried hard to fix his thoughts.
“It's amusing—but far-fetched.”
“Indeed?” He picked up the programme lying on the edge of the box. His ears were strained to catch the tone of Lillian's voice as she laughed and whispered with Kaine.
“Yes; men exchanging identities, you know.”
He looked up and caught the girl's self-possessed glance. “Oh?” he said. “Indeed?” Then again he looked away. It was intolerable this feeling of being caged up! A sense of anger crept through his mind. It almost seemed that Lillian had brought him there to prove that she had finished with him—had cast him aside, having used him for the day's excitement as she had used her poodles, her Persian cats, her crystal-gazing. All at once the impotency and uncertainty of his position goaded him. Turning swiftly in his seat, he glanced back to where she sat, slowly swaying her fan, her pale, golden hair and her pale-colored gown delicately silhouetted against the background of the box.
“What's your idea of the play, Lillian?” he said, abruptly. To his own ears there was a note of challenge in his voice.
She looked round languidly. “Oh, it's quite amusing,” she said. “It makes a delicious farce—absolutely French.”
“French?”
“Quite. Don't you think so, Lennie?”
“Oh, quite,” Kaine agreed.