o himself a little； he went round to the sumptuous flat that housed the lady known as Mirelle。 A trim Frenchwoman received him with smiles。
'But enter then； Monsieur。 Madame reposes herself。'
He was ushered into the long room with its eastern setting which he knew so well。 Mirelle was lying on the divan； supported by an incredible amount of cushions； all in varying shades of amber； to harmonise with the yellow ochre of her plexion。 The dancer was a beautifully made woman； and if her face； beneath its mask of yellow； was in truth somewhat haggard； it had a bizarre charm of its own； and her orange lips smiled invitingly at Derek Kettering。
He kissed her； and flung himself into a chair。
'What have you been doing with yourself？ Just got up； I suppose？'
The orange mouth widened into a long smile。
'No；' said the dancer。 'I have been at work。'
She flung out a long； pale hand towards the piano； which was littered with untidy music scores。
'Ambrose has been here。 He has been playing me the new Opera。'
Kettering nodded without paying much attention。 He was profoundly uninterested in Claud Ambrose and the latter's operatic setting of Ibsen's Peer Gynt。 So was Mirelle； for that matter； regarding it merely as a unique opportunity for her own presentation as Anitra。
'It is a marvellous dance；' she murmured。 'I shall put all the passion of the desert into it。 I shall dance hung over with jewels … ah！ and； by the way； mon ami； there is a pearl that I saw yesterday in Bond Street … a black pearl。'
She paused； looking at him invitingly。
'My dear girl；' said Kettering； 'it's no use talking of black pearls to me。 At the present minute； as far as I am concerned； the fat is in the fire。'
She was quick