He had asked her only one question:
"And how is Mrs. Hilmer?"
Even now he shuddered at the completeness with which her words betrayed her.
"There is no change … we are simply waiting."
He had turned away from this crowning disclosure. Waiting? No wonder she could veil her desire in such disarming patience! He had intended asking her plans. Now it was unnecessary. And he had thought at once of that last night when he had called at Hilmer's, remembering the sprawling magazine on the floor, the bowl of wanton flowers upon the mantelshelf, the debonairly flung mandarin skirt clinging to the piano—these had been the first marks of conquest.
As she was leaving she had said, "I shall see you again, of course."
In spite of its inconsistency he had sensed a certain habitual tenderness in her voice, as if custom were demanding its due. And, for a moment, the old bond between them touched him with its false warmth. But a swift revulsion swept him.
"Why bother?" he had thrown back at her.
"You mean you don't want me to come?"
"Yes, just that!"