"Yes. When?"
"Now."
"I'll be there as soon as a taxi can bring me."
"Good!"
Yet she knew that it was far from good.
"The Spring Song!—The Spring Song!"
The name of Marise Sorel's play sang itself over and over in Garth's brain to wild, strange music, as the taxi flashed him to the Plaza; for there was spring in the air, in the bursting buds on the trees in the park—and in his breast. She must have changed her mind. She must mean to give him some hope, or she wouldn't have sent for him to come back. That would be too cruel—even for her, as he had thought her yesterday, when there was no spring, only winter in his heart and soul.
It was not till he had been rushed up in the lift, and a page-boy had knocked at the door, that the hope seemed too good to be true. Perhaps she merely wished to apologise for being rude? Yet—even that would be better than nothing. It was what he hadn't dared expect—being sent for again. He had resolved to see her in spite of herself, but she was making things easy. This time, not Céline, but Marise herself opened the door. The sight of her gave the man a shock of joy, though she hardly looked him in the face.
"You're very kind to be so prompt," she glossed over the surface of their emotions. "Come in. I—I've something special to say to you."