valuable a woman can possess. Against the hot, hideous red of the
wall-paper and the mass of tawdry ornaments she seemed to gain in
simplicity, and that peculiar clearness of hers was intensified. She was
grave, and only gave Ishmael the ghost of a little wan smile on his
entry over his tendered bouquet. She dispensed tea with her firm, rather
square hands, hands with short, blunt-tipped fingers that yet were not
without the beauty of fitting in with her puma-like solidity of frame;
while the way in which she used them was grace itself. They were the
typical hands of a courtesan, but neither she nor Ishmael knew that,
though Carminow had marvelled to himself at the fact.

Ishmael was silent, falling in with her mood, and suddenly she fixed her
limpid eyes upon him and asked with disconcerting directness:

"What are you thinking of!"

"I was thinking about you," he was startled into saying; "I was
wondering if it's true you're insincere...."

"Who says so ...? Mr. Killigrew? He doesn't like me; I knew it from the
first. I'm sorry; I think he's rather fine, though I'm not sure I think
he's good for you. He guesses that, and that's why he doesn't like me."

"Oh, I'm sure he couldn't be such an ass as to think that," protested
Ishmael. "Besides, surely I am capable of looking after myself!"

"You're capable of a good deal, I believe. You could look after yourself
and other people too. You're strong, you know. I suppose you don't know,
or you wouldn't be you. But I'm sorry you think like that about me."