“Thanks,” returned Phil, “no. I’m a bit fagged. Quite sincere about it. Run along.”
“I’ll find out first whether she’s in,” Stacey said, and lifted the receiver of the telephone on his desk. They were in his study. “If she isn’t I’ll go to a movie,” he added, while waiting for his number.
He got the house and, after a minute, Marian. She laughed musically in response to his question. “Why, yes, come! Do come!” she said.
Her laughter made him angry—but not with her, with himself. It was not her recognition of her power over him that he minded. It was that power itself.
He walked to her house—a matter of a mile. He never used a motor car nowadays if he could get anywhere without one. Swift walking calmed the persistent fever of his blood.
Mr. and Mrs. Latimer were in the drawing-room, and he stood there for a few minutes, chatting with them.
“Marian is in the library,” said Mr. Latimer presently. “She left word that you were to go up as soon as you came.”
“Ames Price is there, too,” Mrs. Latimer put in quietly.
“All right,” said Stacey, with apparent equanimity. “Thanks.”
But he saw Mr. Latimer flash a sudden glance of anger at his wife, who, however, went on with her knitting calmly.