His eyes followed hers. "You mean the prize fight? It is an original by George Bellows, one of your few real American artists. Poor chap, he died in his prime. But why my 'avocation'?"
"When I first met you—at the night club—you had just knocked some poor person sprawling, if I remember rightly."
Rodrigo blushed.
She added significantly. "That is what first interested me in you. I might otherwise consider you merely the usual effete foreign titled gentleman. I adore strong men. I especially adore prize fights and attend them whenever I have the chance." She leaned back challengingly. "Now tell me that I am bold and and unfeminine."
"I think you're quite wonderful," he said with sudden emphasis, and moved to a chair nearer to her. She leaned closer. Her mask-like face softened, and she laid her thin, graceful fingers upon his chair. She showed no signs of displeasure as he laid his hand upon hers.
She had succeeded in moving him again. She knew now that she could mold him to her wish, but she did not wish to do so quite yet. So she professed to ignore his pressure upon her hand, and commented, "This is an adorable place. You must be frightfully rich, if you will pardon my vulgarity in mentioning it."
"I'm not rich," he said. "The place is Dorning's."
"Really?" She shot a quick glance at him and, involuntarily, made a motion to withdraw her hand. "But the car outside is yours. I have seen you driving it."
"That is Dorning's too." Her evident interest in this question of money cooled his ardor somewhat, drew him back toward earth. He said plainly, "Dorning has a couple of millions in his own name, but I haven't a nickel, except what I earn by working hard every day."
She arose thoughtfully after a moment. As he rose to his feet also, she swept him with admiring eyes. But her attitude had subtly changed. She had ceased to wish him to make love to her.