The curtains were not yet drawn before the windows and a blue light shone through, and the white boughs of the trees sprayed across.
A woman’s room—full of flowers and photographs and silk pillows—the floor smothered in rugs—an immense tiger-skin under the piano—just the head protruding—sleepily savage.
“It was good enough,” said Max. “Victor can’t be in till late. He told me to come up and tell you.”
He started walking up and down—tore off his gloves and flung them on the table.
“Don’t do that, Max,” said Elsa, “you get on my nerves. And I’ve got a headache to-day; I’m feverish and quite flushed.... Don’t I look flushed?”
He paused by the window and glanced at her a moment over his shoulder.
“No,” he said; “I didn’t notice it.”
“Oh, you haven’t looked at me properly, and I’ve got a new tea-gown on, too.” She pulled her skirts together and patted a little place on the couch.
“Come along and sit by me and tell me why you’re being naughty.”
But, standing by the window, he suddenly flung his arm across his eyes.