He turned abruptly and walked off, leaving Drake to apostrophize his eccentricity and seek consolation with Marie.
On Sunday afternoon Michael, torn between a desire to arrive before the crowd of artists and actors who thronged the house and an unwillingness to obtrude upon the Sabbath lethargy of half-past three o’clock, set out with beating heart to invade Lily’s home. Love made him reckless and luck rewarded him, for when he enquired for Mrs. Haden the maid told him that only Miss Lily was in.
“Who shall I say?” she asked.
“Mr. Fane.”
“Step this way, please. Miss Lily’s down in the morning-room.”
And this so brief and so bald a colloquy danced in letters of fire across the darkling descent of the enclosed stairs down to the ground-floor.
“Someone to see you, Miss Lily.”
Not Iris could have delivered a richer message.
Deep in a wicker chair by a dull red fire sat Lily with open book upon her delicate dress of lavender. The door closed; the daylight of the grey October afternoon seemed already to have fled this room. Dusky in a corner stood a great dolls’ house, somewhat sad like a real house that has been left long untenanted.
“Well, now we’re alone enough,” murmured Lily.