Leila Mortimer came to the door and opened it; her hair was coiled for the night, her pretty figure outlined under a cascade of clinging lace.
“What is the matter?” she asked quietly.
“Are you point-shooting to-morrow?”
“I wanted to chat with you.”
“I'm sorry. I'm driving to Wenniston, after breakfast, with Beverly Plank, and I need sleep.”
“I want to talk to you,” he repeated doggedly.
She regarded him for a moment in silence, then, with an assenting gesture, turned away into her room; and he followed, heavily apprehensive but resolved.
She had seated herself among a pile of cushions, one knee crossed over the other, her slim white foot half concealed by the silken toe of her slipper. And as he pulled a chair forward for himself, her pretty black eyes, which slanted a little, took his measure and divined trouble.
“Leila,” he said, “why can't we have—”
“A cigarette?” she interrupted, indicating her dainty case on the table.