him, a trifle rosier than usual, with a smile in her eyes.

"Ready for your coffee, dear?"

He leaned against the mantelpiece, watching her as she lifted the
coffee-pot. The lamplight struck a gleam from her bracelets and
tipped her soft hair with brightness. How light and slender she was,
and how each gesture flowed into the next! She seemed a creature all
compact of harmonies. As the thought of Haskett receded, Waythorn
felt himself yielding again to the joy of possessorship. They were
his, those white hands with their flitting motions, his the light
haze of hair, the lips and eyes....

She set down the coffee-pot, and reaching for the decanter of
cognac, measured off a liqueur-glass and poured it into his cup.

Waythorn uttered a sudden exclamation.

"What is the matter?" she said, startled.

"Nothing; only--I don't take cognac in my coffee."

"Oh, how stupid of me," she cried.

Their eyes met, and she blushed a sudden agonized red.