sinking among the cushions of the settee. Leslie kneeled again before her, and she bent her head and watched him.
“My feet are a tiny bit cold,” she said, plaintively, giving him her foot, that seemed like gold in the yellow silk stocking. He took it between his hands, stroking it:
“It is quite cold,” he said, and he held both her feet in his hands.
“Ah, you dear boy!” she cried with sudden gentleness, bending forward and touching his cheek.
“Is it great fun being mine host of ‘Ye Ramme Inne?’ ” she said, playfully to George. There seemed a long distance between them now as she sat, with the man in evening dress crouching before her putting golden shoes on her feet.
“It is rather,” he replied, “the men in the smoke room say such rum things. My word, you hear some tales there.”
“Tell us, do!” she pleaded.
“Oh! I couldn’t. I never could tell a tale, and even if I could—well——.”
“But I do long to hear,” she said, “what the men say in the smoke room of ‘Ye Ramme Inne.’ Is it quite untellable?”
“Quite!” he laughed.
“What a pity! See what a cruel thing it is to be a woman, Leslie: we never know what men say in smoke rooms, while you read in your novels everything a woman ever uttered. It is a shame! George, you are a wretch, you should tell me. I do envy you——.”
