His relief was so intense that, turning up the lights, seeing her sitting there on a little sofa near the door, he bent involuntarily over her to kiss her.
But her hand put him away.
"No; I must speak to you," she said.
Gregory straightened himself, compressing his lips.
Karen had evidently not thought of changing. She wore her dark-blue silk dress. She had, indeed, been sitting there since Mrs. Forrester went. He looked about the room, noting, with dull wonder, the grouped chairs, and open piano. "You have had people here?"
"Yes. The Lippheims came and played to me. I would have written to them and told them not to come; but I forgot. And Mrs. Forrester has been here."
"Quite a reception," said Gregory. He walked to the window and looked out. "Well," he said, not turning to his wife, "what have you to say to me, Karen?" His tone was dry and even ironic.
"Mrs. Forrester came to tell me," said Karen, "that you had seen her this morning."
"Yes. Well?"
"And she told me," Karen went on, "that you had a great deal to say to her about my guardian—things that you have never dared to say to me."