Across the top of the front page was a postscript.
"Next month I shall be in town. Don't forget that I am coming to call upon you. I hope you won't be 'out'!"
Alex, to whom nothing was trivial, saw the proposed call looming enormous upon the horizon of her days.
Every afternoon she either sat beside Lady Isabel in the carriage in an agony, with only one thought in her mind—the expectation of finding Noel's card upon the hall table on their return—or else took her part disjointedly and with obvious absent-mindedness in the entertainment of her mother's visitors.
When, during a crowded At Home afternoon, in the course of which she had necessarily ceased to listen for the sound of the front-door bell, "Mr. Cardew" was at length announced, Alex felt almost unable to turn round and face the entering visitor.
Her own imagination, untempered either by humour or by experience, had led her to picture the next encounter between herself and Noel so frequently, and with such a prodigal folly of romantic detail, that it seemed incredible to her that the reality should take place within a few instants, amidst brief, conventional words and gestures.
Noel did not talk about the book that they were to write together, although he remained beside Alex most of the afternoon. Only just as he was leaving, he asked cheerfully:
"You've not forgotten our collaboration, have you, partner? I've heaps of things to discuss with you, only you were so busy this afternoon, looking after all those people."
"We shall be in on Sunday," Alex told him eagerly, "and there won't be such a crowd."
"Oh, good," said Noel. "Perhaps we'll meet in the Park before that, though."