“And how does it work?” he said. “This treatment that you find so—French?”
His voice as well as his expression had changed. He still spoke quietly, but he spoke with interest. He was no longer conscious of his vague and uneasiness; a fresh chord had been struck in his mind, and his curiosity had responded to it. For the first time it occurred to him that love—the dangerous, mysterious garden whose paths had so suddenly stretched out before his own feet—was a pleasure-ground that possessed many doors—and an infinite number of keys. He was stirred by the desire to peer through another entrance than his own, to see the secret, alluring byways from another stand-point. He waited with interest for the answer to his question.
For a second or two Kaine continued to survey the house; then his eye-glass dropped from his eye and he turned round.
“To understand the thing,” he said, pleasantly, “you must have read the book. Have you read the book?”
“No, Mr. Kaine,” Mary Esseltyn interrupted, “Mr. Chilcote hasn't read the book.”
Lillian laughed. “Outline the story for him, Lennie,” she said. “I love to see other people taking pains.”
Kaine glanced at her admiringly. “Well, to begin with,” he said, amiably, “two men, an artist and a millionaire, exchange lives. See?”
“You may presume that he does see, Lennie.”
“Right! Well, then, as I say, these beggars change identities. They're as like as pins; and to all appearances one chap's the other chap—and the other chap's the first chap. See?”
Loder laughed. The newly quickened interest was enhanced by treading on dangerous ground.