He smiled, drew her to him, and lightly smoothed the thick, bright hair from her brow.
“You know,” he said, “I am becoming very fond of you, Dulcie. You’re such a splendid girl in every 173 way.... We’ll always remain firm friends, won’t we?”
“Yes.”
“And in perplexity and trouble I want you to feel that you can always come to me. Because—you do like me, don’t you, Dulcie?”
For a moment or two she sustained his smiling, questioning gaze, then laid her cheek lightly against his hands, which still held both of hers imprisoned. And for one exquisite instant of spiritual surrender her grey eyes closed. Then she straightened herself up; he released her hands; she turned slowly and entered her room, closing the door very gently behind her.
In the studio above, Thessalie, still wearing her rose-coloured cloak, sat awaiting him by the window.
He crossed the studio, dropped onto the lounge beside her, and lighted a cigarette. Neither spoke for a few moments. Then he said:
“Thessa, don’t you think you had better tell me something about this ugly business which seems to involve you?”
“I can’t, Garry.”