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As a young man, Roger Ferrison conformed to type. Throughout that very pleasant dinner hour he had suffered occasionally from qualms of conscience, as he had realised the charm of his companion's soft voice, her unusual personality, the flame which shone sometimes in her eyes. He had felt a sense almost of guilt as she had led him gently across the lounge, down the passage to her room. Guilt, perhaps because of the curious sense of excitement, the unusual stirring of the blood in his veins. Then, when they had arrived at her apartments and she had settled herself with a slightly weary air upon the sofa, and had merely pointed to his easy-chair, calling to Marie to bring the coffee, he was aware, not of a sense of relief, which should have been the natural corollary to his qualms of conscience, but a sense of faint but definite disappointment. Flora seemed suddenly tired. Her eyes were half closed, her arms hung listlessly over the sides of the couch.
"Serve Monsieur with his coffee, Marie," she directed in French. "Give him some of the old Armagnac. I will take some myself. I'm tired."