He stepped to the door and looked out into the passage. “Impatient! Of course I’m impatient. Where are you?”
Her laugh floated back. “Where you’re not allowed to come. You can’t complain; I told you I wouldn’t be dressed till twelve.”
“It’s nearer one by now.”
“Is it? But you’ve nothing to do. If you hunt about, you’ll find some cigarettes. Make yourself happy.”
He had hoped she would continue the conversation; but her voice grew secret as she whispered to her maid. He heard cupboards and drawers being opened and shut, a snatch of song, and, every now and then, the infectious gayety of her laughter.
He came back into the room and smiled at the photo on the piano. “She mayn’t be in love with me yet, but she’s certainly not in love with you,” he thought. Then he stood gazing at his unresponsive rival, wondering how much he could tell.
He was still intent upon the portrait when she danced across the threshold, swinging her gloves.
“Taking a look at Tom? Be careful; you’ll make him jealous.” She slipped her small hand into his. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.”
“D’you mean that—that you’re really glad?”
Her eyes sparkled with mischief, but she said demurely: “Why shouldn’t I mean it? I’m always glad to see my friends.—And now, don’t you think you’ve held my hand long enough? See how lonely it looks, just as if it were asking me to put on its glove.”