Craven thought he was disappointed. There was no revelation for him in that. He held the book on his knee, and wondered what he had expected to find, what type of book. What special line of reading was Lady Sellingworth’s likely to be? He could imagine her dreaming over “Wisdom and Destiny,” or perhaps over “The Book of Pity and of Death.” On the other hand, it seemed quite natural to think of her smiling her mocking smile over a work of delicate, or even of bitter, irony, such as Anatole France’s story of Pilate at the Baths of Baies, or study of the Penguins. He could not think that she cared for sentimental books, though she might perhaps have a taste for works dealing with genuine passion.
He heard the door open gently, and got up. Lady Sellingworth came in. She had not changed her dress, which was a simple day dress of black. She had only taken off her fur and hat, and now came towards him, still wearing white gloves and holding a large black fan in her hand.
“What’s that you’ve got?” she asked. “Oh—my book!”
“Yes. I took it up because I wondered what you were reading. I think what people read by preference tells one something of what they are. I was interested to know what you read. Forgive my curiosity.”
She sat down by the fire, opened the fan, and held it between her face and the flames.
“I read all sorts of things.”
“Novels?”
“I very seldom read a novel now. Here is our tea. But I know you would rather have a whisky-and-soda.”
“As a rule I should, but not to-night. I want to drink what you are drinking.”
“And to smoke what I am smoking?” she said, with a faintly ironic smile.