The Lucys were never by any chance down before nine. Robert would not meet him.
He sat down in the chair opposite her, with his eyes fixed on her as she leaned back in the corner of the sofa. He settled himself in comfort, crossing his legs and thrusting out one foot, defined under a delicate silk sock, in an attitude that was almost contemptuous of Kitty's presence.
Kitty's face was innocent of any perception of these shades. He drew the long breath of ease and smiled at her again, a smile that intimated how thoroughly he approved of her personal appearance.
"Ye—es," he said, "you're different, but I think you're almost as pretty as you were."
"Am I?" she said. "What did you expect?"
"I didn't expect anything. I never do. It's my scheme for avoiding disappointment. Is your head better?"
"No; it's aching abominably."
"Sorry. But it's rather hard lines for me, isn't it? I wish you could have chosen some other time to be ill in."
"What does it matter whether I'm ill or not, if I'm not pretty?"
He smiled again.