We raced back to London, for I feared that Robert's mood might change for the worse—that an autumn chill of remorse might shiver through his veins.
All was well, however—very well. I made him talk to me of Joyce nearly the whole way; and at the end of the journey I had him waiting for her in the drawing room of my flat before he quite knew what had happened to him.
My secretary was in her own room, writing her own letters as she'd said she would do.
"Back already, Princess?" she exclaimed, jumping up when I'd knocked and been told to come in. "Why, you've hardly more than had time to get there and back, it seems, to say nothing of lunch!"
"I haven't had any lunch," I said.
"No lunch? Poor darling! Why——"
"I was too busy," I broke in. "And I wanted to get back."
"Only this morning you were longing to go!"
"I know! It does sound chameleon-like. But second thoughts are often best. Come into the drawing room and you'll see that mine were—much best."
She came, in all innocence. I opened the door. I thrust her in. I exclaimed: "Bless you, my children!" and shut the two in together.