"I have often wondered what this design meant," he said, idly—not looking at her, and hopeful that this much allusion at least was permitted to what they dared not speak of openly.
"Perhaps Mr. Harrowby could tell you." Kathleen also spoke as with indifference—not looking at him, but into the mirror, and giving deft final touches to her hair.
"Eh—?" Kennaston smiled. "Oh, yes, Dick Harrowby, I grant you, has dabbled a bit in occult matters, but hardly deep enough, I fancy, to explain—this."
"At all events," Kathleen considered, "it is a quarter to seven already, and we have seats for the theater to-night."
He cleared his throat. "Shall I keep this, or you?"
"Why, for heaven's sake—! The thing is of no value now, Felix. Give it to me." She dropped the two pieces of metal into the waste-*basket by the dressing-table, and rose impatiently. "Of course if you don't mean to change for dinner—"
