To this simple speech was appended one gesture only—a slight raising of the eyebrows. Yet the effect was to sweep Keith into the intimacy of an inner circle, to suggest that she, too, found society mixed, and to imply—very remotely—that at least certain members of the present company itself were not quite what he—or she—would choose in another environment. In unconscious response to this unspoken thought, Keith glanced about the table. There was a good deal of drinking going on; and the fun was becoming even more obvious and noisy. Mrs. Morrell occasionally sipped at her champagne. She emitted a slight but rather disturbing perfume.
"Why did you come out here, anyway?" she asked him. "I can't make out.
I'm curious."
"Why shouldn't I?" demanded Keith.
"Well, men come here either for money, for adventure, or to make a career." She marked each on the tablecloth with the end of a fork. "Which is it?"
"Guess," laughed Keith.
"You don't need money—or else you have a wonderful nerve to take the Boyle house. I believe you have the nerve, all right. Men with your sort of close curly hair are never—bashful!" she laughed shortly.
"Boyle's rent is safe—for a while," admitted Keith.
"Career?" she went on, looking him in the eyes speculatively, and allowing her gaze to sink deep into his. He noticed that her eyes were a gray green, like semi-precious stones of some sorts, with surface lights, but also with grayer radiations that seemed to go below the surface to smouldering depths—disturbing eyes, like the perfume. "Career?" she repeated. "I think you hold yourself better—a career in the riff-raff of this town." She shook her head archly. "But adventure! Oh, la! There's plenty of that—all sorts!" She gave the impression of meaning a great deal more than she said. "I wish I were a man!" she exclaimed, and laughed.
"I'm glad you're not," rejoined Keith sincerely.
She tapped him lightly on the arm with her fan.