Alison paused near the centre of the room, shrugging her wrap from her shoulders and dropping it carelessly on the table. He saw her shoot swift glances round her with bright, prying eyes.
“I’m afraid I’m not enough of a genius to starve,” he said; “but anyway, here’s where I write.”
“How interesting!” she drawled in a tone that conveyed to him the impression she found it anything but that. And then, a trace sharply: “Please shut the door.”
He lifted his brows in surprise, said “Oh?” and turning back did as bid. At the same time Alison disposed herself negligently in a capacious wing-chair.
“Yes,” she took up his monosyllable; “it’s quite as important as all that. I don’t wish to be overheard. Besides,” she added with nonchalant irrelevance, “I do want a cigarette.”
Silently Staff found his metal cigarette-safe and offered it, put a match to the paper roll held so daintily between his lady’s lips, and then helped himself.
Through a thin veil of smoke she looked up into his serious face and smiled bewitchingly.
“Are you thrilled, my dear?” she asked lightly.
“Thrilled?” he questioned. “How?”
She lifted her white, gleaming shoulders with an air of half-tolerant impatience. “To have a beautiful woman alone with you in your rooms, at this hour o’ night ... Don’t you find it romantic, dear boy? Or aren’t you in a romantic mood tonight? Or perhaps I’m not sufficiently beautiful ...?” She ended with a charming little petulant moue.