He stood there a moment, after the door was opened, without moving, his eyes agleam, and a smile hovering over his mouth. Often and often had they met in precisely similar fashion, he, as he passed the door on his way home, giving one discreet little ring, which Nellie would answer if she felt disposed to see him. Sometimes her mother would be in; but oftener, if in, she had gone to bed, and the two would sit over the fire, or, on hot nights, seek the window-seat and spend an hour of desultory intimacy, as two boys might, or two girls. But to-night there was some little effervescent quality added to the meeting; the spice that a combined manœuvre, however innocent, brought with it. Both realized, too, that a talk, which must attempt to readjust their old relations or fit them into the changed conditions, lay ahead, and, for the moment, each brought gaiety and goodwill to the task. The best evidence for that was the assumption of the old relations pending the readjustment....
“Peter! How lovely of you!” she said. “Come in.”
“Is she in?” he asked, putting down his coat and hat.
“Mother? No; she’s at a harpy party. Four women rooking each other at bridge. They’ll all be trembling and being frightfully polite by this time. Peter, bring your hat and coat in with you. If mother sees them there she will think Philip’s here and will come in to sit with us.”
“And if she thought they were mine——”
“She would come in twice. But if there are no signs of anybody she will probably go to bed and not interrupt us.”
The night was hot, with a thundery, overcast sky, and they sat together again in the window-seat. A hundred feet below the street was roaring and rolling along, thick with the discharge from theatres and music halls.
“The clever one! And how did you get rid of Philip?” asked Peter.
“Lied, darling,” said Nellie, succinctly.
“Did you, indeed? Nellie, I don’t think you’re getting on very well with your determination to be conventional.”