"Tell me," he asked his host, during one of the brief pauses in
the conversation, "have you ever tried to analyse this interest
of yours in human beings and crowded cities, this hatred of
solitude and empty spaces?"
Oliver Hilditch smiled thoughtfully, and gazed at a salted almond
which he was just balancing between the tips of his fingers.
"I think," he said simply, "it is because I have no soul."
CHAPTER VI
The three diners lingered for only a short time over their
dessert. Afterwards, they passed together into a very delightful
library on the other side of the round, stone-paved hall.
Hilditch excused himself for a moment.
"I have some cigars which I keep in my dressing-room," he
explained, "and which I am anxious for you to try. There is an
electric stove there and I can regulate the temperature."
He departed, closing the door behind him. Francis came a little
further into the room. His hostess, who had subsided into an
easy-chair and was holding a screen between her face and the
fire, motioned him to, seat himself opposite. He did so without
words. He felt curiously and ridiculously tongue-tied. He fell
to studying the woman instead of attempting the banality of
pointless speech. From the smooth gloss of her burnished hair,
to the daintiness of her low, black brocaded shoes, she
represented, so far as her physical and outward self were
concerned, absolute perfection.
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