'No, of course not. I want to travel. I'll go South this winter and get some local colour. I might write a novel.'
His head was thrown back on the cushion, looking out upon the blue southern sky, the bluer waters speckled as with foam by remote white sails.
'You might give me a cigarette, Jack,' said Victoria. 'They're in that silver box, there.'
He handed her the box and struck a match. As he held it for her his eyes fastened upon the shapely whiteness of her hands, her pink polished finger nails, the roundness of her forearm. Soft feminine scents rose from her hair; he saw the dark tendrils over the nape of her neck. Oh, to bury his lips in that warm white neck! His hand trembled as he lit his own cigarette and Victoria marked his heightened colour.
'You'll come and see me often, Jack, won't you?'
'May I? It's so good of you. I'm not going South for a couple of months.'
'Yes, you can always telephone. You'll find me there under Mrs Ferris.'
Holt looked at her once more.
'I don't want you to think I'm prying. But, you wrote me saying I was to ask for Mrs Ferris. I did, of course, but, you . . . you're not. . . .?'
'Married? No, Jack. Don't ask me anything else. You shall know everything soon.'