She was hardly aware of the walk back to the little house in Mayfair, back to the doorstep where, such aeons ago, she had paused to look at the crying cat. If she had not paused, if she had gone a little earlier to the pillar-box, before the lamp was lighted——Her mind was blurred again. All—all was dream, except that life, near her, was claiming her.
Now they were in the drawing-room, among the shaded lamps, the gilt, the chintz and bric-à-brac.
Haldicott sent for wine and made her drink. He said to the maid that Miss Fraser had felt faint during her walk. For a long time Allida leaned back in the chair where he had put her, shading her eyes with her hand.
"Can you write to Ainslie now?" Haldicott asked at last. "We will send your letter by special messenger."
"Yes, yes; let me write." She drew off her gloves, and Haldicott put paper and pen before her.
She looked up at him.
"What shall I say?" she asked.
This time, uncontrollably, he wanted to laugh; if he did not laugh he must burst out crying; he leaned his elbows on the table as he sat beside her, burying his face on his arms, his shoulders shaking.
Allida sat with the pen in her hand, gazing at him. The nightmare, after all, was too near for her to share his dubious amusement; but that she saw its point as well as he did was evinced in her next question, asked in still the faltering voice:
"Shall I say that I've decided to wait a day?"