He rang the bell and heard a faint tinkle, then the rustling of skirts, accompanied by prim footsteps. A severely attired maid admitted him. He gazed round the room into which he was shown. Books, artistically bound, lay on the table. Everything gave evidence of fastidiousness and taste—of a certain remoteness from the everyday jostle of life. Above an inlaid desk stood a portrait, silverframed. Out of curiosity Peter tiptoed over; the Faun Man gazed out at him with laughing eyes. Lying open on the desk was a well-thumbed volume, small and bound like a Bible. A passage was underscored, which read, “Thou must be lord and master of thine own actions, and not a slave or hireling.” Turning to the title-page, he found that it was The Imitation of Christ.
A voice behind him said, “Ah, so you’ve discovered me!”
He drew himself up, afraid she might suspect him of spying. “I—I was interested by the words you’d underlined. I wanted to see who wrote them. I oughtn’t to have——”
She laughed softly, shrugging her shoulders. She was all in white—lazy, splendid and vital. “My Loo-ard! Don’t apologize. You were surprised. I don’t blame you.” She nodded her head like a knowing child. “Oh, yes, Peter, the golden woman reads books like that sometimes.”
She took his hands in hers and drew him over to a sofa, making him sit down beside her. “And now, what have you come to tell me?”
He recovered from his confusion and surrendered, as all men did, to her graciousness. “That it’s ripping to see you. But—but how did you know I called you the golden woman?”
“Lorie—he tells me everything.” She leant back her long fine throat, pillowing her head against the cushions. “You must never trust him with any of your secrets, if you don’t want me to—— Now, what is it that you’ve come to tell me?”
“Then, you know——?” He hesitated. The confession to him was sacred; there was amusement in her eyes. “Then you know about me and Cherry?” He was sure she did. She had greeted him as though his visit had been long expected.
She placed her cool fingers about his wrist and bent her head nearer. Her voice was low, and caressing—the voice of one who breaks bad news gently. “I know. You told her that you loved her.—— Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”
She was looking sorry for him. “Why sooner?” he questioned.