It was with thoughts of her that he fitted his key in the latch. The Square was full of newly married couples, some of them little more than boys and girls—youngsters who had waited impatiently and had run together the moment war was ended. Others had been married just long enough to be proudly parading their first baby. Every morning white prams were wheeled out into the garden, there to be watched over by softly spoken nurses. Every night, as dusk came down, expectant mothers paced gently through the shadows, leaning on the arms of ex-officer husbands. It wasn't only in the trees that nests were being built. The Square's name might well have been changed to Honeymoon Square.
And now, as Tabs pushed the door open, preparing to enter, he knew that all up and down the Square, behind the pall of darkness, other doors were being pushed back. Young couples were coming home from dinners and theaters. He could hear the murmur of their laughter, subdued and secret, hinting at intimacies of affection. The men had misplaced their latch-key perhaps; the girls were advising that they search another pocket. Or the lock refused to turn and the girls were whispering how it could be persuaded. Some of them were arriving in taxis; others, less lucky or more economic, were tripping by on foot along the pavement. He noticed how closely they clung together and he
thought of Terry. It would be jolly to be young, to build a nest and, by and by, to see your own white pram wheeled out to take its place in the blowy greenness of the garden. He withdrew his key and entered, closing the door behind him.
The house was very still. It was nearly midnight. The maids had gone to bed, leaving lights in the hall and on the landings. As he hung up his hat, the stillness was broken by the sudden ringing of the telephone. It rang in a peevish, scolding manner, as though this were not the first time and it had lost its temper with waiting. He climbed the flight of stairs to his library and, without waiting to switch on the lights, sat down at his table, taking up the receiver.
"Yes."
"Is this Lord Taborley?" a voice inquired.
"Lord Taborley speaking."
"This is Sir Tobias Beddow." There was a pause, followed by a little asthmatic cough. Then, "How are you, my dear fellow? I've been trying to reach you all evening. I was expecting to see you round here this morning at eleven.—No, I don't mean perhaps what you infer. Besides, it wouldn't have been any good if you had called; Terry wandered out, without leaving word where she was going. She didn't get back till nearly lunch-time. Most unaccountable conduct under the circumstances; but since your conduct was equally unaccountable, perhaps it was just as well. But that wasn't what I called you up about."
Tabs smiled in the darkness. Sir Tobias was as
simple and crafty as a child; he couldn't keep anything back. Then his mind jumped to the obvious conclusion. Terry hadn't told her parents about her morning interview; her parents naturally supposed that it was his fault that he was not engaged to her as yet. Making an effort to be diplomatic, he said, "Perhaps I can explain my apparent negligence to you later. It must seem unpardonable. I've been busy every minute over things that absolutely couldn't be avoided."