ok at her like a missile. It was
what Sophy knew as his "red look." She went swiftly up to him.

"There," she said; "show me what you want to, and then we'll go."

But his eyelids had drawn together again, and he looked up at her with
his mocking smile. Yes; his face was slightly swollen--puffy about the
lips and eyes.

"Won't you show it to me, Cecil?" she asked.

"I've changed my mind," he drawled.

Something in Sophy's breast shrivelled.

"Very well," she said quietly; "then we can go at once."

Chesney sank his head deeper in his shoulders, settled his body deeper
in the sofa.

"That's what I've changed my mind about," he said. "I'm not going."

"But...."

"I'm not going."

"It's a dinner, Cecil.... It will be very rude."

"I'm not going."

"Shall I say you're ill?"

"You're not going, either."

He grinned it at her, gloating on the expression of her face. She went
pale again, then crimson. Her eyebrows flickered passionately.

"I am going," she said, in a still voice.

Then she felt his fingers go softly round her arm.

"Sit down by me," he said, drawing her delicately downward by the arm he
held. Her dignity kept her from resisting. She was drawn down among the
deep cushions beside him. The warmth that his great body had left on
them struck her bare arms and shoulders, giving her a feeling of
repulsion. As she sat there, armed within against him, she could not
escape from breathing his breath, his face was so close to hers. Its
odour of mingled wines, cognac, cigarette smoke, sickened her. The
strong, sooty smell of cloth from the arm against her own added a new
pang, for this smell of London cloth, which was so distinct to her
foreign sense, had been once associated with the fascination of love.

Now he leaned his face forward and looked into her eyes, and she noticed
with that inward shrivelling how strange his were--so much paler than
they used to be--curiously glassy--the pupils mere specks of black in
the centre of the greenish iris.

"What's the use of posing to me?" he said, with a sort of blandness.

"Posing to you?"

"Yes--quite so. Doing the 'chastest icicle on Dian's Temple.' You
forget--don't you? I've seen the hidden fire."

Sophy said nothing. The blood started to her cheek again as under a
whip.

He moistened his lips in that slow way, and smiled.

"Haven't I? Eh?"

She turned him a very quiet, haughty profile.

"I don't pretend to understand your moods, Cecil."