Athalie

From their table beside the bronze-railed gallery, they could overlook

the main floor where a wide lane for dancing had been cleared and

marked out with crimson-tasselled ropes of silk.

A noisy orchestra played imbecile dance music, and a number of male

and female imbeciles took advantage of it to exercise the only

portions of their anatomy in which any trace of intellect had ever

lodged.

Athalie, resting one dimpled elbow on the velvet cushioned rail,

watched the dancers for a while, then her unamused and almost

expressionless gaze swept the tables below with a leisurely absence of

interest which might have been mistaken for insolence--and envied as

such by a servile world which secretly adores it.

"Well, Lady Greensleeves?" he said, watching her.

"Some remarkable Poiret and Lucille gowns, Clive.... And a great deal

of paint." She remained a moment in the same attitude--leisurely

inspecting the throng below, then turned to him, her calm

preoccupation changing to a shyly engaging smile.

"Are you still of the same mind concerning my personal

attractiveness?"

"I have spoiled you!" he concluded, pretending chagrin.

"Is that spoiling me--to hear you say you approve of me?"

"Of course not, you dear girl! Nothing could ever spoil you."

She lifted her Clover Club, looking across the frosty glass at him;

and the usual rite was silently completed. They were hungry; her

appetite was always a natural and healthy one, and his sometimes

matched it, as happened that night.

"Now, this is wonderful," he said, lighting a cigarette between

courses and leaning forward, elbows on the cloth, and his hands

clasped under his chin; "a good show, a good dinner, and good company.

What surfeited monarch could ask more?"

"Why mention the company last, Clive?"

"I've certainly spoiled you," he said with a groan; "you've tasted

adulation; you prefer it to your dinner."

"The question is do you prefer my company to the dinner and the

show? Do you! If so why mention me last in the catalogue of your

blessings?"

"I always mention you last in my prayers--so that whoever listens will

more easily remember," he said gaily.

The laughter still made the dark blue eyes brilliant but they grew

more serious when she said: "You don't really ever pray for me,

Clive. Do you?"

"Yes. Why not?"

The smile faded in her eyes and in his.

"I didn't know you prayed at all," she remarked, looking down at her

wine glass.