She laughed and nodded, pressing his arm.
“Well, I can't, worse luck,” he answered, frowning.
That evening, while they sat in the dining room over their dessert, the telephone bell rang. Stefan jumped hastily to answer it, as if he felt sure it was for him, and he proved right.
“Yes, this is I,” he replied, after his first “hello,” in what seemed to Mary an artificial voice.
There was a pause; then she heard him say, “You can?” delightedly, followed by “To-morrow morning at ten? Hurrah! No more wasted time; we shall really get on now.” Another pause, then, “Oh, what does it matter about the store?” impatiently—and at last “Well, to-morrow, anyway. Yes. Good-bye.” The receiver clicked into place, and Stefan came skipping back into the room radiant, his languor of the last few days completely gone.
Mary's heart sank like a stone. It was too obvious that he had stayed at home, not to be with her, but merely because his sitter was unobtainable.
“Cheers, Mary; back to work to-morrow,” he exclaimed, attacking his dessert with vigor. “I've been slacking shamefully, but Felicity is so wrapped up in that store of hers I can't get her half the time. Now she's contrite, and is going to sit to-morrow.”
Mary, remembering his remark about McEwan, longed to say, “Why do you call that little vulgarian by her first name?” but retaliatory methods were impossible to her. She contented herself with asking if he would be home the next evening.
“Why, yes, I expect so,” he answered, looking vague, “but don't absolutely count on me, Mary. I've been very good this week.”
She saw that he was gone again. His return had been more in the body than the spirit, after all. If that had been wooed a little back to her it had winged away again at the first sound of the telephone. She told herself that it was only his work calling him, that he would have been equally eager over any other sitter. But she was not sure.