Potter frowned slightly as he located a match box under the tumbled papers on his desk and struck a light for her. He had never been able to master his dislike to women smoking, in spite of his staunch belief that his pretty wife was always right in everything she did. Reading his expression like a book, Nina slipped her hand inside his and leaned against his arm.
“It is very lonely going about without you,” she murmured. “I don’t enjoy myself a bit when you remain at home.”
Potter turned and kissed the soft cheek so near his own. “My holiday is over,” he answered, and putting out his foot touched a packing case, its contents partly spread on the floor in an untidy pile. “I cannot neglect my work.”
“You will never be accused of that,” with flattering emphasis. “But, dear, I need—want your society more than these dreadful reptiles,” and she made a slight grimace as she glanced at the bottles containing specimens preserved in alcohol which adorned the shelves of a cabinet near at hand. “I know,” lowering her voice, “I’m selfish—”
“I love your selfishness, dear,” he replied, and held her closely to him just as a tap sounded on the door. “Confound it! Come in.”
The Japanese servant, who answered his command, bowed profoundly, and his calm gaze never flickered at sight of the loverlike attitude of husband and wife.
“You home, Sir?” he asked.
“Yes, of course, I’m home. What of it?” Potter dropped his arm from about his wife’s waist in embarrassment.
“Mr. Rodgers call upon you.” The Japanese spoke without haste. “You see him?”
“Certainly. Bring him here,” and at the words Moto vanished.