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She responded to the extent of gazing at him,
now and then, in a most disconcerting fashion. It was as though she
cared little about idealism. She did not smile. There was neither love
nor disdain in that gaze; it was neither hot nor cold, nor yet
lukewarm; it was something else, something he did not want at
all--something that made him feel childish and uncomfortable.
And another pair of eyes were watching all the time, her sinuous
movements--those of Mr. Edgar Marten. This young scientist, too,
cherished loving thoughts about Angelina, thoughts of a more earthly
and volcanic tinge; certain definite projects which made him forget, at
times, his preoccupation with biotite, perlite, magnetite, anorthite,
and pyroxene.
"Denis," said Keith, in his usual pompous fashion. "Do put down that
absurd tray and let people help themselves. Listen to me for a moment.
How do you like this place? I am not asking out of vulgar curiosity; I
am anxious to know the impressions of a person of your age and
antecedents.


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