He went to see his publisher, who was astonished by his youth and had had no idea that he was in America. He found himself treated as a personality—a man to be reckoned with. It was exhilarating, flattering; but all that it meant to him was something to tell Desire to make her glad. That was all that any success meant now.
It was five o’clock when he returned to his hotel. He went to the desk.
“Any message?”
The clerk glanced down the row of pigeon-holes and drew out a slip of paper.
“A lady called you up.”
With nervous fingers he took it from him and read:
“Come to dinner seven forty-five. Vashti Jodrell.”
From Desire nothing!