Part 9 (2/2)
He heard the door open gently, and got up. Lady Sellingworth came in.
She had not changed her dress, which was a simple day dress of black.
She had only taken off her fur and hat, and now came towards him, still wearing white gloves and holding a large black fan in her hand.
”What's that you've got?” she asked. ”Oh--my book!”
”Yes. I took it up because I wondered what you were reading. I think what people read by preference tells one something of what they are. I was interested to know what you read. Forgive my curiosity.”
She sat down by the fire, opened the fan, and held it between her face and the flames.
”I read all sorts of things.”
”Novels?”
”I very seldom read a novel now. Here is our tea. But I know you would rather have a whisky-and-soda.”
”As a rule I should, but not to-night. I want to drink what you are drinking.”
”And to smoke what I am smoking?” she said, with a faintly ironic smile.
”Yes--please.”
She held out a box of cigarettes. The butler went out of the room.
”I love this house,” said Craven abruptly. ”I love its atmosphere.”
”It isn't a modern atmosphere, is it?”
”Neither distinctively modern, nor in the least old-fas.h.i.+oned. I think the right adjective for it would be perhaps--”
He paused and sat silent for a moment.
”I hardly know. There's something remote, distinguished and yet very warm and intimate about it.”
He looked at her and added, almost with hardihood.
”It's not a cold, or even a reserved house.”
”Coldness and unnecessary reserve are tiresome--indeed, I might almost say abhorrent--to me.”
She had given him his tea and lemon and taken hers.
”But not aloofness?”
”You have travelled?”
”Yes.”
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