He hailed her gaily, with a jerk of his head, a “Come along,” and a lifted glass. Leaning back as she came on, watching and waiting for her, he stretched out his left arm. She smiled rather conventionally, did not meet his eyes, but came within reach. His arm encircled her, and drew her in. “Well, my girl, well!” he said, glancing up, laughing, tempting her to laugh. She looked down gently, blushing a little, and condescended to him, stooped and brushed his forehead with her lips. Condescension expresses her act. It was exactly done as one would humour an importunate child, excuse its childishness, and grant it its desire of the moment.
So it must have been felt by him, for there was a sharp, short tussle of wills. She would have had him contented, but he was not so to be contented. There was a little struggle, much silent entreaty from him, much consideration from her above him—her doubting, judging, discriminating eyes, her smile, half-tender and half-scornful; but in the end he kissed her lips, the more ardently for their withholding. Then he allowed her to sit by the table, not far off, and resumed his smoked salmon and his zest. She declined to share the meal; was neither hungry nor thirsty, she said. “Have your own way, my dear,” he concluded the match; “you'll feel all the better for it, I know.” She cupped her chin in her hand, and watched the play of knife and fork, her thoughts elsewhere.
“Now, Sancie,” he said presently, in his usual direct manner, “how long is it since I've seen you?”
She answered at once, without looking up, “A year and ten days.”
He shook his head. “That's too long. That's absurd. I don't like that kind of thing, as a man domestically inclined. But I've been a devil of a way. I wrote to you—from where?”
“From Singapore,” she told him.
“So I did. I remember. But I went to Egypt before that. First-rate place, Egypt. I know it well, but am always glad to be there. Fine river of its own. We went to Khartoum, and two marches beyond; then Singapore and the Straits, Burmah, Ceylon; then India. Didn't I write to you from India?”
“Yes,” she told him. She was balancing a salt-spoon idly on a wine-glass, and seemed scarcely to listen. He rattled on.
“Had great days in India. Shooting, fishing, pig-spearing; polo, dances, rajahs, pretty women, pow-wows of sorts, and a chance of a fight. All in a year, my friend—I beg your pardon—and ten days. Quick work, eh? One crowded year of glorious life. A cycle of Cathay.”
She was looking at her saltspoon, stretched beyond her the length of her arm. “I'm sure you were very happy.”