“Don’t forget,” he called back from the door; “we read our parts to-morrow, and rehearsals begin on Thursday.”
“I have it all down,” Berenice answered. “I will do my best to be ready for Thursday.”
Berenice remained standing, looking thoughtfully after the little brougham, which was being driven down Piccadilly.
Matravers came back to her, and laid his hand gently upon her arm.
“You must not think of going yet,” he said. “I want you to stay and have tea with me.”
“I should like to,” she answered. “I seem to have so much to say to you.”
He piled her chair with cushions and drew it back into the shade. Then he lit a cigarette, and sat down by her side.
“I suppose you must think that I am very ungrateful,” she said. “I have scarcely said ‘thank you’ yet, have I?”
“You will please me best by never saying it,” he answered. “I only hope that it will be a step you will never regret.”