After a moment, casually unconscious, she seated herself on the broad, upholstered end of the lounge, looking down over his shoulder at the open book on his knees.
"In fiction," she remarked, "there is only one end to such situations.... But, if you like, I don't mind beginning another book with you, Mr. Gray."
Her hand, which rested among the cushions, supporting her, happened to come within the range of his wandering vision. He looked at it for a little while. Presently he placed his own over it, very lightly.
Neither moved. But it was a long time before he ventured to turn his head and look up at the woman with whom he had read through his first long love story. She had read such stories before, understood something of their tricks, their technique, their reality, and their romance. And had supposed there was nothing further for her to learn about them and that her interest in them was dead.
"If you don't mind," he said, "reading on with me, for a while——"
"I might tire."
"Try not to."
Her flushed face became thoughtful. Already the prospect of reading another romance with him seemed interesting.
Warner and Philippa, silently descending the stairs together, glanced around at the two figures together there under the lighted lamp.
The Countess was saying calmly: