Since morning he had done a thousand things. He had been to the hospital and had yielded once more to the spell of its splendid machinery; he had talked with Austin and the talk had been like wine to a thirsty soul. In such an atmosphere a man would have little time to—think. He craved the action, the excitement, the uplift.
He came back to Eve's prattle. "I told Winifred Ames we would come to her little supper after the play. I was to have gone with her and Pip and Jimmie Ford. Tony is away. But when you 'phoned, I called the first part of it off. I wanted to have a little time just with you, Richard."
He smiled at her. "Who is Jimmie Ford?"
"A lovely youth who is in love with me—or with my money—he was at your birthday party, Dicky Boy; don't you remember?"
"The Blue Butterfly? Yes. Is he another victim, Eve?"
She shrugged. "Who knows? If he is in love with me, he'll get hurt; if he is in love with Aunt Maude's money, he won't get it. Oh, how can a woman know?" The lightness left her voice. "Sometimes I think that I'll go off somewhere and see if somebody won't love me for what I am, and not for what he thinks Aunt Maude is going to leave me."
"And you with a string of scalps at your belt, and Pip ready at any moment to die for you."
She nodded. "Pip is pure gold. Nobody can question his motives. And anyhow he has more money than I can ever hope to have. But I am not in love with him, Dicky."
"You are not in love with anybody. You are a cold-blooded little thing, Eve. A man would need much fire to melt your ice."
"Would he?"