Only, if Storri had observed the San Reve's eyes, and added their expression, so strangely reckless yet so resolved, to the set mouth and that marble pallor of her brow, the result might have sickened his assurance.
Having in mind his soaked condition, Storri called for whisky.

The San Reve was good enough to pour him a stiff glass, which he drank raw with the harsh appetite of a Russian.

There was the ghost of an odor of sleep about that whisky; but the sleep-specter did not appeal to Storri, who tossed off his drink and followed one dram with another, suspecting nothing.

Five minutes later he was drowsing stertorously on a lounge.
The San Reve, white, and wild in a manner passive and still, had spoken no word; she attended Storri's wants in silence.

When that sudden weariness came to claim him and he cast himself in slumber upon the couch, the San Reve, from where she stood statue-like in the center of the room, bent upon him her gray-green eyes.