'If I have any man, it will be a poor one.'
'Then,' said Zita in a caressing tone, 'I know what you really must have, and what there is no resisting. It is the beautifullest little lot of perfumes. They're all in a glass box, with cotton wool, and blue ribbons round their necks. There's Jockey Club—there's Bergamot—there's Frangipani—there's New-mown Hay—there's White Heliotrope, and there's Lavender too. I am sure there is yet another; yes, Mignonette. One for every day of the week. Think of that! You can scent yourself up tremenjous, and a different scent every day of the week. You cannot refuse that.'
'But,' said Kainie, with a wavering in her tone, a token of relaxation in resistance to the allurements presented to her imagination, 'what do you want for this?'
'One thing only.'
'What is that?'
'Give up Mark.'
'Mark Runham?'
'Yes. Mark Runham. Is it a deal between us? Now listen.' Zita held up one hand, and began again with the catalogue of perfumes. 'There is Jockey Club for Sunday;' she touched her thumb. 'There is Bergamot for Monday;' she touched the first finger. 'There is Frangipani for Tuesday, and New-mown Hay for Wednesday'—
'Give up Mark?' Kainie interrupted the list. 'What do you mean?'
'What I mean is this,' said Zita: 'Mark told me that he was tied to you somehow.'