“You adorable thing––” He felt the faintest pressure of her fingers; then he heard himself being presented to Questa Terrett.
The frail and somewhat mortuary beauty of this slim poetess, with her full-lipped profile of an Egyptian temple-girl and her pale, still eyes, left him guessing––rather guiltily––recollecting his recent but meaningless disrespect.
“I don’t know,” she said, “just why you are here. Soldiers are no novelty. Is somebody in love with you?”
It was a toss-up whether he’d wither or laugh, but the demon of gaiety won out.
She also smiled.
“I asked you,” she added, “because you seem to be quite featureless.”
“Oh, I’ve a few eyes and noses and that sort–––”
“I mean psychologically accentless.”
“Just plain man?”
“Yes. That is all you are, isn’t it?”