She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. But something instinctive prevented that, and with the finest resolve not to be “silly” and prudish she found that whenever he became at all bold in this matter she became severely scientific and impersonal, almost entomological indeed, in her method; she killed every remark as he made it and pinned it out for examination. “Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off.
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