But there are days and days." They kissed each
other. "I'll go now." She kissed Lee. "Lunch will be at two." He kissed
her. He didn't leave the library until a maid announced that lunch was
ready and the fact of her return. At the table they spoke but little;
Lee Randon was enveloped in a luxurious feeling--where Savina was
concerned--of security; there was no need to hurry; the day lengthened
out into the night and an infinity of happy minutes and opportunities.
They discussed, however, what to do with it.
"I'd like to go out to dinner," she decided; "and then a theatre, but
nothing more serious than a spectacle: any one of the Follies. I am
sick of Carnegie Hall and pianists and William's solemn box at the
Opera; and afterwards we'll go back to that caf? and drink champagne
and dance."
That, he declared, with a small inner sinking at the thought of Fanny,
would be splendid. "And this afternoon--?"
"We'll be together."
They returned to the library--more secluded from servants and callers
than the rooms on the lower floor--where, at one end of the massive
lounge, they smoked and Savina talked. "I hardly went to sleep at all,"
she admitted; "I thought of you every second. Do you think your wife
would like me?" She asked the vain question which no woman in her
situation seemed able to avoid.
"Of course," he lied heroically.
"I want her to, although I can't, somehow, connect you with her; I
can't see you married.
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