Cairns drew her down by his side on the couch. Everything in this woman interested and stimulated him. She was always fresh, always young. The touch of her hand, the smell of her hair, the feel of her skirts winding round his ankles, all that was magic; every little act of hers was a taking of possession. Every time he mirrored his face in her eyes and saw the eyelids slowly veil and unveil them, something like love crept into his soul. But every passionate embrace left him weak and almost repelled. She was his property; he had paid for her; and, insistent thought, what would she have done if he had not been rich?
Half an hour passed away. Victoria lay passive in his arms. Snoo and Poo, piled in a heap, were snuffling drowsily. There was a ring at the front door, then a slam. They could hear voices. They started up.
'Who the deuce . . . .?' said Cairns.
Then they heard someone in the dining-room beyond the door. There was a knock at the door of the boudoir.
'Come in,' said Victoria.
Mary entered. Her placid eyes passed over the Major's tie which had burst out of his waistcoat, Victoria's tumbled hair.
'Mr Wren, mum,' she said.
Victoria staggered. Her hands knotted themselves together convulsively.
'Who is it? What does he want? What name did you say?' asked Cairns. Victoria's excitement was infecting him.