Page:The Yellow Book - 06.djvu/169

rushing in her ears for several minutes. When he spoke again it seemed as though a wave were receding slowly and unwillingly on the sea-shore.

"I am very sorry, Cynthia. Of course I am going—to be sure, yes."

She was conscious that he rose from the sofa and stood a little away from her.

"I suppose you wouldn't mind my knowing his name? Don't tell me if you would sooner not," said his voice, grown gentler still.

A woman rarely finds it difficult to pronounce the name of her lover, and Cynthia recovered some of her self-possession in the effort.

"I don't suppose you have ever heard of him. His name is Marks Adrian Marks."

There was one of those rapid transitions from artificial composure to natural display of feeling, and Cynthia, listening dully to his movements, heard the springs of the sofa suddenly creak again as Willis dropped back heavily on to his seat.

"Bless my soul!" he said in his own voice and manner.

Cynthia raised herself and looked coldly at him.

"Adrian Marks?" he repeated, smoothing his hair with a large white handkerchief. "Adrian Marks?"

"Do you know him?" asked Cynthia curtly.

"Know him? Rather think I do! Little unphysical bit of a man eh? Hair getting thin on the top, sallow complexion, no hands to speak of should think I did know him, that's all. Do you really mean Adrian Marks? Impossible!"

"He is an artist. I don't expect you to understand what that means. And I am going to marry him, which I think ought to spare him your jeers. And I really think we had better end this useless discussion."