He walked into the front-room; it was littered with presents, received and to be given, and their torn wrappings.
She heard him. “You mustn’t go in there,” she called.
“Then where am I to go?”
“Bother. I don’t know. You can stand in the passage and talk to me if you like.”
For a quarter of an hour he leant against the wall, facing her closed door. While they exchanged remarks he judged her progress by sounds. Sometimes she informed him as to their meaning. “It’s my powder-box that I’m opening now.—What you heard then was the stopper of my Mary Garden bottle.—Shan’t be long. Why don’t you smoke?”
He didn’t want to smoke, but when she asked him a second time, her question had become an imperative.
Her voice reached him muffled; by the rustling she must be slipping on her skirt. “I’m keeping you an awfully long while, Meester Deek; you’re very patient.” There was a lengthy pause. Then: “Of course it isn’t done in the best families, but we’re different and, anyhow, nobody’ll know. I’ve drawn down the shades.—If you promise to be good, you can come inside.”
She was seated at her dressing-table before the mirror, adjusting her broad-brimmed velvet hat.
“Hulloa!” She did not turn, but let her reflection do the welcoming. “I haven’t allowed many gentlemen to come in here.” She seemed to be saying it lest he should think himself too highly flattered.
He bent across her shoulder, asking permission by his silence.