The door of the apartment stood ajar and he walked in. Athalie, still
in her evening gown, rose from the sofa before the fire, dropping the
white Angora, Hafiz, from her lap.

"It's so good of you, Clive," she said, offering her hand.

"It's good of you, Athalie, to let me come."

"Let you!" There was a smile on her sensitive lips, scarcely
perceptible.

He dropped coat, hat, and walking stick across a chair; she seated
herself on the sofa, and he came over and found a place for himself
beside her.

"It's been a long time, Athalie. Has it seemed so to you?"

She nodded. Hafiz, marching to and fro, his plumy tail curling around
her knees, looked up at his mistress out of sapphire eyes.

"Jump, darling," she said invitingly. Hafiz sprang onto her lap with a
quick contented little mew, stretched his superb neck and began to rub
against her shoulder, purring ecstatically.

"He'll cover me with long white hairs," she remarked to Clive, "but I
don't care. Isn't he a beauty? Hasn't he seraphic eyes and angelic
manners?"

Clive nodded, watching the cat with sombre and detached interest.

She said, stroking Hafiz and looking down at the magnificent animal:
"Did you have a pleasant evening, Clive?"

"Not very."

"I'm sorry. Your party seemed to be such a very gay one."