VIII
Ronnie woke with a start, stared at the window and cursed. Pulling on a dressing-gown he slipped from the room and at the sight of him the woman who was dusting the sideboard paused in her labors.
"I don't want you here today—where is your friend?"
"In the pantry, sir."
"Well, take her with you—ah, François, listen. Turn these women out and then go out yourself—go to the city—and get—buy anything you like, but don't come back before eleven—no twelve."
He waited until the flat was empty and returned to his room. Beryl was lying with her head in the crook of her arm. She was not asleep—nor crying, as he had feared.
"I'm dreadfully sorry, darling—I must have fallen asleep."
"What is the time?" She did not turn but spoke into the pillow.
"Eight—curse it! You can't go home in evening dress."
"Why not?"
She struggled up, her face averted.
"It is the best way," she said, "will you get me a cab?"
When he came up again, she was tidying her hair at the mirror. "It was very foolish," she remarked without emotion.
"There is nobody below, and, thank God, there was an Albert Hall ball last night," said Ronnie, "and it is only eight—shall I come down with you?"
She shook her head. "No—just show me how to work the elevator. An Albert Hall ball? Where could I have been after that finished? You lie better than I, Ronnie."
"Having breakfast—lots of people make a special function of breakfast after those shows."
"All right—show me how the elevator works."
To her maid a quarter of an hour later: "I'm going to bed, Dean, and if Mr. Morelle rings up, will you tell him that I am very sorry I cannot see him this morning. You can bring me a cup of chocolate—yes, I've had breakfast, but bring me some chocolate."
She was standing by the window in a silk wrap when the maid brought the tray. Beryl did not look round.
"Put it down, Dean—I will ring when I want you."
She walked across the room and locked the door. Then she came to the mirror and looked for a long time at herself. "Yes—Beryl—it is you! I was hoping it was somebody else!"