A man was sitting on a broad couch, a cigarette in his fingers. He was a stranger to Nance, a stranger to the country, but she catalogued him swiftly as the man from New York of whom all Nameless had heard. He was slim and fair skinned, and the grey eyes, set rather close together across the arch of the high-bridged nose, were the sharpest she had ever seen in a human. A fox she had once seen caught in a trap had had just such eyes.
They were cold and appraising, without a spark of kindness.
In one of the gorgeous chairs Kate Cathrew, dressed like a princess, sat bolt upright.
At sight of Nance in her faded garments, straight and defiant in her controlled anger, her handsome face flushed beneath its artistry.
“Ah!” she said, like a vixen, “get—out—of—that—door. Step over to the right a bit, you obscure the light.”
The big girl did not move.
She stood with her hat pulled down above her narrowed eyes, one hand on her hip.
“If you’ve got anything to say to me,” she said coldly, “say it.”
Kate Cathrew leaped to her feet, but the man put out a hand and touched her.
As if a spring had been released she sank down, obeying that calm touch like an automaton.