Juliette tripped out like a stage soubrette, demurely pert from crown to sole. Possibly—just possibly—she guessed; probably she guessed nothing. The suggestion was no more than a suggestion in the mind of the watcher of all these bygone scenes.
Paul rose, but Gertrude waved him back.
‘Not yet,’ she whispered, ‘not yet.’
He sat down again, his senses all awhirl with the aching desire he had to hold her in his arms.
‘You must not allow Sardou’s masterpiece to grow cold,’ said Gertrude; and Juliette came tripping back again, with the grave man at her heels. ‘You will take this to the post,’ said Madame la Baronne, indicating the letter on the salver the maid carried. ‘You will see it registered personally, and bring me the receipt.’
The grave man bowed, and retired, letter in hand.
‘You like your coffee, Mr. Armstrong? And, oh, Juliette, bring to me that last little portfolio of watercolour drawings. You know where you will find them?’
‘But, yes, Madame la Baronne, but they were locked in the escritoire.’
‘You will find the key,’ said the Baroness, sipping her coffee, ‘in my purse. Make haste, for M. Armstrong has but a moment to spare.’
Juliette ran with a swirl of petticoats upstairs. Gertrude followed the footsteps with alert ear and eye. Ear and eye alike seemed to listen. She rose to her feet and stretched her arms with an imploring gesture.