“Really, I am nothing of the kind.”
“And I have quick eyes. It is that horrible reading-room full of fustiness and indigence. I am ashamed to to send you there.”
She would laugh and study to be more conventional.
“Mr. Massinger, I am a very healthy young woman, and the work interests me.”
“My work?”
“Yes.”
“That is really sweet of you. I like to think your woman’s hands have dabbled in it. Tell me, haven’t you any ambitions of your own—any romantic schemes?”
“Oh, I paint a little in my spare time!”
“The mysteries of colour. You are a vestal, and your colour dreams must be very pure. Supposing we talk this afternoon, and let work alone? And Adolf shall make us coffee.”
Adolf made excellent coffee, and in the oak court-cupboard Massinger kept liqueur glasses and bottles of choice liqueur. It was a harmless sort of æsthetic wickedness, a little accentuated by occasional doses of opium or cannabis indica. Eve would take the coffee, but she could never be persuaded to touch the Benedictine. It reminded her of Massinger’s moonish and intriguing eyes.