Over the dinner-table at Pagani's he advanced a farther step upon the road which he was resolved to walk with her, failing other companionship.
"Roselle," he said, deliberately, "this isn't enough. How long are you going to play about with me like a beautiful pussy cat? I've been very good, haven't I? When I think of what a good boy I've been I could laugh." He laughed deeply. "You know, I could love you a lot. Why don't you give me a trial? There isn't anyone else, is there?"
He was amazed at himself to feel jealousy hot in him as he put the question.
There was no one else at the moment; but she sat thinking and playing with the stem of her wineglass, and keeping a half-cynical, half-simpering silence. It was the veil with which she shrouded her stupidity while she debated the pros and cons with herself as deliberately as she had spoken.
"No," she said at last, with a long, meaning look which meant nothing. "No, there is no one else, Osborn." Her sigh ruffled the chiffons on her breast.
"I'm going to Paris for the firm next month; it'll only be a week-end. Come, too? I'll give you a good time."
"I'll see," she murmured, her stupidity not dense enough to give a promise thus early. A month? A long, long while, an age, in which other things might turn up.
"So'll I," he said, looking into her eyes. "I'll see that you come."
"I haven't a rag to wear."
"You'll have all Paris to choose from."