Staff watched her with a kindling eye, then shook his head as one who doubts—as if doubting his own worthiness—and went off to his own stateroom to run over the type-script of his fourth act: being fortunate in having chosen a ship which carried a typist, together with almost every other imaginable convenience and alleged luxury of life ashore.
Punctual to the minute, manuscript under his arm, he knocked at the door of the sitting-room of the suite de luxe occupied by the actress. Her maid admitted him and after a moment or two Alison herself came out of her stateroom, in a wonderful Parisian tea-gown cunningly designed to render her even more bewilderingly bewitching than ever. Staff thought her so, beyond any question, and as unquestionably was his thought mirrored in his eyes as he rose and stood waiting for her greeting—very nearly a-tremble, if the truth’s to be told.
Her colour deepened as she came toward him and then, pausing at arm’s length, before he could lift a hand, stretched forth both her own and caught him by the shoulders. “My dear!” she said softly; and her eyes were bright and melting. “My dear, dear boy! It’s so sweet to see you.” She came a step nearer, stood upon her tiptoes and lightly touched his cheek with her lips.
“Alison ...!” he cried in a broken voice.
But already she had released him and moved away, with a lithe and gracious movement evading his arms. “No,” she told him firmly, shaking her head: “no more than that, Staff. You mustn’t—I won’t have you—carry on as if we were children—yet.”
“But Alison—”
“No.” Again she shook her head. “If I want to kiss you, I’ve a perfect right to; but that doesn’t give you any licence to kiss me in return. Besides, I’m not at all sure I’m really and truly in love with you. Now do sit down.”
He complied sulkily.
“Are you in the habit of kissing men you don’t care for?”
“Yes, frequently,” she told him, coolly taking the chair opposite; “I’m an actress—if you’ve forgotten the fact.”