“Why?”
“Every one thinks so. You are so thin. You move so silently. Your body is so elastic and controlled. You always look as if you could glide into places where other women could never go, and be at home in attitudes they could never assume.”
“But I'm an actress—my body is trained, you know, to lie, to fall, as I choose.”
“Other actresses don't give one the same impression.”
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “My peculiar physique has a great deal to do with it.”
“Of course, and there's something more than that, something mental.”
Claire's heavy eyes grew more thoughtful. The white lids fluttered lower over them till they looked like the eyes of one half asleep. She lay in silence, plunged in a reverie that was deep and dark. In this reverie she forgot to move her fan, which dropped from her hand and fell softly upon the rug. Renfrew did not interrupt her. His worship had learned to wait upon her moods. A huge dragon-fly passed on its journey towards the far blue range of the Atlas Mountains. It whirred in its haste, and its burnished body shone in the sunshine between its gleaming wings. Claire snatched at it with her hand, but missed it.
“I should like to wear it as a jewel,” she said.
Then she turned slowly again towards Renfrew, and continued her nocturne as if it had never been broken off.
“The canvas flap fell down again over the doorway, Desmond, and it seemed that just then the breeze died away, expiring in that angry gust. I could not see anything but the interior of the tent, and only that very dimly. But this man outside. I wanted to see him.”