“No, I didn't—know,” said I curtly, suppressing my instant curiosity. “What does Mrs. Langdon want?”
“To see you—for just a few minutes—whenever it is convenient.”
“If Mrs. Langdon has business with me, I'll see her at my office,” said I. She was one of the fashionables that had got herself into my black books by her treatment of Anita since the break with the Ellerslys.
“She wishes to come to you here—this afternoon, if you are to be at home. She asked me to say that her business is important—and very private.”
I hesitated, but I could think of no good excuse for refusing. “I'll be here an hour,” said I. “Good day.”
He gave me no time to change my mind.
Something—perhaps it was his curious expression as he took himself off—made me begin to regret. The more I thought of the matter, the less I thought of my having made any civil concession to a woman who had acted so badly toward Anita and myself. He had not been gone a quarter of an hour before I went to Anita in her sitting-room. Always, the instant I entered the outer door of her part of our house, that powerful, intoxicating fascination that she had for me began to take possession of my senses. It was in every garment she wore. It seemed to linger in any place where she had been, for a long time after she left it. She was at a small desk by the window, was writing letters.
“May I interrupt?” said I. “Monson was here a few minutes ago—from Mrs. Langdon. She wants to see me. I told him I would see her here. Then it occurred to me that perhaps I had been too good-natured. What do you think?”
I could not see her face, but only the back of her head, and the loose coils of magnetic hair and the white nape of her graceful neck. As I began to speak, she stopped writing, her pen suspended over the sheet of paper. After I ended there was a long silence.
“I'll not see her,” said I. “I don't quite understand why I yielded.” And I turned to go.