If only Ivor had arrived a quarter of an hour earlier, at the time appointed, I should have hurried him away before this, so that I might write to Raoul; but now I could not think what to do for the best—what to do, that things might not be made far worse instead of better between Raoul and me. I had suffered so much that my power of quick decision, on which I’d so often prided myself vaingloriously, seemed gone.
“It is Raoul,” I said. “What shall I do?”
“Let him in, of course, and introduce me. Don’t act as if you were afraid. Say that I came to see you on important business concerning a friend of yours in England, and had to call after the theatre because I’m leaving Paris by the first train in the morning.”
“No use.”
“Why not? When a man loves a woman, he trusts her.”
“No man of Latin blood, I think. And Raoul’s already angry. He has the right to be—or would have, if Godensky had been telling him the truth. And I refused to let him come here. I said I was going straight to bed, I was so tired. He’s knocking again. Hide yourself, and I’ll let him in. Oh, why do you stand there, looking at me like that? Go into that room,” and I pointed, then pushed him towards the door. “You can get through the window and out of the garden—softly—while Raoul and I are talking.”
“If you insist,” said Ivor. “But you’re wrong. The best thing—”
“Go—go, I tell you. Don’t argue. I know best,” I cut him short, in a sharp whisper, pushing him again.
This time he made no more objections, but went into the adjoining room, my boudoir. The key was in the door; I turned it in the lock, snatched it out, and dropped it into a bowl of flowers on a table close by. That done, I flew out of the drawing-room into the little entrance hall, and opened the front door. There stood Raoul, his face dead white, and very stern in the light of the hall lamp. I had never seen him like that before.
“I know why you’re here,” I began quickly, before he could speak. “Count Godensky told me what he said to you. I—hoped you would come.”