He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. A little Cockney recovered it, and made ridiculous attempts to get to her and replace it. She turned her eyes to him again, and saw her late friend and pleasant and trusted companion, who had seen fit suddenly to change into a lover, babbling interesting inacceptable things. “But that’s quite different,” replied Anna. “Are you speaking to me?” she asked calmly. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features.
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