“Good-night,” said Mr. Priestley, and feverishly shut the door on the good woman. He did not scruple to turn the key in the lock.
With a sigh of relief he turned back into the room. A voluminous red flannel night-gown, draped chastely over the end of the bed beside a still more voluminous white flannel night-shirt, caught his eye for the first time and he smiled absently. Somebody (he had not the faintest idea who) must at some time have explained away their absence of luggage, and this was the good woman’s reply. He smiled again.
Laura saw the smile and trembled. To her alarmed eye it was the smile of gloating anticipation. Her already enfeebled knees sagged a little further.
“And now,” said Mr. Priestley, “to business!” and he walked briskly towards the bed. The way to the wash-stand, it may be remarked, took him past the end of the bed.
It was the last straw. Unable to bear this final blow, Laura’s long-suffering knees collapsed altogether. She tottered into a chair.
“Please!” said Laura faintly. “Don’t!”
“Why not?” asked the surprised Mr. Priestley, who only wanted to go to the wash-stand.
“Because—because—well, surely you see.”
“Upon my soul, I don’t,” said Mr. Priestley, his eyes fixed longingly on the wash-stand.
Laura coloured deeply. For a young woman who prided herself upon being above all things modern she found herself horribly embarrassed. “Well,” she said desperately, “it—it isn’t playing the game exactly, is it?”