VIII

TEA TIME

[_To SYLVESTER GATES_]


She lay on a sofa covered with white marabou, her head sunk deep into a
billowy morass of lace-coloured satin and lace-coloured lace. She could
see her pointed toes emerging and her arm dangling over the edge as if
she had forgotten it. On her finger was a huge emerald ring, a splotch
of crème de menthe spilt on the whiteness of her hand. She felt
entrenched and anchored in an altogether strong position, so fixed that
all advances would have to be made to her. This gave to her voice and to
her gestures an indolent melodious security.

As the door opened she turned her eyes round slowly, suppressing all
eagerness.

"Mortimer!" She wondered if disappointment could be as easily controlled
as joy. "How nice of you to come and see me!"

"Are you glad--really?" He was kissing her hand with an unnecessary
mixture of shyness and intensity.

"How intolerably literal people in love are," she thought petulantly;
"always forcing significance into everything."