"I tell you to wait.

I've a right to that much consideration anyway." "Very well, Howard," she said, recognising in him the cowardice which she had always suspected to be there.
She bade him good night; he touched her hand but made no offer to kiss her.

She laughed a little to herself, watching him striding toward the elevator, then, closing the door, she stood still in the centre of the room, staring at her own reflection, full length, in the gilded pier-glass, her lips edged with a sneer so like Quarrier's that, the next moment she laughed aloud, imitating Quarrier's rare laugh from sheer perversity.
"I think," she said to her reflected figure in the glass, "I think that you are either mentally ill or inherently a kind of devil.

And I don't much care which." And she turned leisurely, her slim hands balanced lightly on her narrow hips, and strolled into the second dressing-room, where Mrs.Vendenning sat sullenly indulging in that particular species of solitaire known as "The Idiot's Delight." "Well ?" inquired Mrs.Vendenning, looking up at the tall, pale girl she was chaperoning so carefully during their sojourn in town.
"Oh, you know the rhyme to that," yawned Agatha; "let's ring up somebody.

I'm bored stiff." "What did Howard Quarrier want ?" "He knows, I think, but he hasn't yet informed me." "I'll tell you one thing, Agatha," said Mrs.Vendenning, gathering up the packs for a new shuffle: "Grace Ferrall doesn't fancy Howard's attention to you and she's beginning to say so.