Mrs. Sin shook her head.
“Not Cy,” she said. “Two pipes are nothing to him. He will need two more—perhaps three. But you are not going to smoke?”
“Not tonight, Lola.”
She frowned, and was about to speak, when:
“Lola, my dear,” came a distant, querulous murmur. “Give me another pipe.”
Sin tossed her head, turned, and went out again. Sir Lucien lighted another cigarette. When finally the woman came back, Cyrus Kilfane had presumably attained the opium-smoker’s paradise, for Lola closed the door and seated herself upon the arm of Sir Lucien’s chair. She bent down, resting her dusky cheek against his.
“You smoke with me?” she whispered coaxingly.
“No, Lola, not tonight,” he said, patting her jewel-laden hand and looking aside into the dark eyes which were watching him intently.
Mrs. Sin became silent for a few moments.
“Something has changed in you,” she said at last. “You are different—lately.”