But it was too late to change, and she caught up a scarf of gossamer and twined it round her neck to serve as a mitigation.
Hearing her footsteps on the stairs at last, Dyckman hurried to meet her. As she swept into the room she collided with him, softly, fragrantly. They both laughed nervously, they were both a little influenced.
She found the drawing-room too formal and led him into the library. She pointed him to a great chair and seated herself on the corner of a leather divan nearly as big as a touring-car. In the dark, hard frame she looked richer than ever. He could not help seeing how much more important she was than his Anita.
Anita was pretty and peachy, delicious, kissable, huggable, a pleasant armful, a lapload of girlish mischief. Charity was beautiful, noble, perilous, a woman to live for, fight for, die for. Kedzie was to Charity as Rosalind to Isolde.
It was time for Jim to play Tristan, but he had no more blank verse in him than a polo score-card. Yet the simple marks on such a form stand for tremendous energy and the utmost thrill.
“Well, how are you, anyway, Charity? How goes it with you?” he said. “Gee! but you look great to-night. What's the matter with you? You're stunning!”
Charity laughed uncannily. “You're the only one that thinks so, Jim.”
“I always did admire you more than anybody else could; but, good Lord! everybody must have eyes.”
“I'm afraid so,” said Charity. “But you're the only one that has imagination about me.”
“Bosh!”