The effort, and its semi-success, indicated
surrender to her companion's spirit rather than any attention to the
subject spoken of.

They returned to the drawing-room, but had not time to begin a
conversation before the servant summoned them to dinner. A very
satisfying meal it proved; not badly cooked, as cooking is understood in
Brixton, and served with more of ceremony than the guest had expected.
Fried scallops, rump steak smothered in onions, an apple tart, and very
sound Stilton cheese. Such fare testified to the virile qualities of
Beatrice's mind; she was above the feminine folly of neglecting honest
victuals. Moreover, there appeared two wines, sherry and claret.

'Did you ever try this kind of thing?' said the hostess finally,
reaching a box of cigarettes.

'I?--Of course not,' Nancy replied, with a laugh.

'It's expected of a sensible woman now-a-days. I've got to like it.
Better try; no need to make yourself uncomfortable. Just keep the smoke
in your mouth for half-a-minute, and blow it out prettily. I buy these
in the Haymarket; special brand for women.'

'And you dine like this, by yourself, every day?'

'Like this, but not always alone. Some one or other drops in. Luckworth
Crewe was here yesterday.'

Speaking, she watched Nancy, who bore the regard with carelessness, and
replied lightly:

'It's an independent sort of life, at all events.'

'Just the kind of life that suits me. I'm my own mistress.'

There was a suggested allusion in the sly tone of the last phrase; but
Nancy, thinking her own thoughts, did not perceive it. As the servant
had left them alone, they could now talk freely. Beatrice, by her
frequent glance of curiosity, seemed to await some explanation of a
visit so unlooked-for.

'How are things going with you?' she asked at length, tapping the ash of
her cigarette over a plate.

'I want something to do,' was the blunt reply.

'Too much alone--isn't that it?'

'Yes.'

'Just what I thought. You don't see him often?'

Nancy had ceased her pretence of smoking, and leaned back. A flush
on her face, and something unwonted in the expression of her
eyes,--something like a smile, yet touched with apathy,--told of
physical influences which assisted her resolve to have done with scruple
and delicacy. She handled her wine-glass, which was half full, and,
before answering, raised it to her lips.

'No, I don't see him often.'

'Well, I told you to come to me if I could be any use