“Bored,” he nodded briefly.
“Why?” she demanded, astonished.
“I don’t know. Probably because I’ve missed you.”
Recognising only a jest in kindness meant, she smiled response and went into her bed-room.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “my room is full of lilies!” She came to the door, inarticulate with gratitude, exaggerating, as always, kindness of giver and beauty of gift; then inadequately thanked him—invited him to enter and see where Hattie had placed his flowers.
“Don’t sleep with them; they’ll give you a headache,” he remarked.
For a little while she lingered over the scented flowers. Then there was just a moment’s hesitation; and, as he did not seem inclined to leave, she seated herself at her dressing table, shook out her bobbed hair—fleeting revelation of close-set ears and nape milk-white under thickest chestnut curls.
Deftly she re-parted, re-touched, coaxed, petted, intent upon her business with this soft, crisp shock of curls. Her every movement fascinated him—the twisted grace of her lithe back, celerity of slender wrist and fingers,—white!—oh, so white and swift and sure!...
He bent and touched her head with his lips. Movement ceased instantly; hovering hands froze stiff, suspended; she sat as motionless as the lilies in her room.
After a moment’s wordless silence, manual activity ventured to resume, tentatively, with little intervals of hesitation—silent, intent, inquiring perhaps; perhaps inherent apprehension which turns the feminine five senses into ears.