With the realization came the thought of Eve, and
in the midst of his own difficulty his face hardened.
Lillian ignored the coldness. Taking his hand, she smiled.
"You're unusually punctual," she said. "But your hands are
cold. Come closer to the fire."
Loder was not sensible that his hands were cold, but he
suffered himself to be drawn forward.
One end of the couch was in firelight, the other in shadow.
By a fortunate arrangement of chance Lillian selected the
brighter end for herself and offered the other to her guest.
With a quick sense of respite he accepted it. At least he
could sit secure from detection while he temporized with fate.
For a moment they sat silent, then Lillian stirred. "Won't
you smoke?" she asked.
Everything in the room seemed soft and enervating--the subdued
glow of the fire, the smell of roses that hung about the air,
and, last of all, Lillian's slow, soothing voice. With a
sense of oppression he stiffened his shoulders and sat
straighter in his place.
"No," he said, "I don't think I shall smoke.
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