She looked up leisurely as he entered, gave him a friendly nod, and, when he held out his hand, placed her own in it. With delighted gravity he bent and saluted her finger tips with lips that twitched to control a smile.
“Will you be seated, please?” she said gently.
The softness of her agreeable voice struck him as 230 he looked around for a seat, then directly at her; and saw that she meant him to find a seat on the lounge beside her.
“Now, indeed you are Scheherazade of the Thousand and One Nights,” he said gaily, “with your cigarette and your bonbons, and cross-legged on your divan––”
“Did Scheherazade smoke cigarettes, Mr. Neeland?”
“No,” he admitted; “that is an anachronism, I suppose. Tell me, how are you, dear lady?”
“Thank you, quite well.”
“And—busy?” His lips struggled again to maintain their gravity.
“Yes, I have been busy.”
“Cooking something up?—I mean soup, of course,” he added.