"I am ready," he announced. "Let me drive you home first."
His motor was waiting at the door, and he left Sophy at her rooms. Before she got out, she held his arm for a moment.
"John," she said, "remember that Louise is very high-strung and very sensitive. Be careful!"
"There is only one thing to do or to say," he answered. "There is only one way in which I can do it."
He drove the car down Piccadilly like a man in a dream, steering as carefully as usual through the traffic, and glancing every now and then with unseeing eyes at the streams of people upon the pavements. Finally he came to a standstill before Louise's house and stopped the engine with deliberate care. Then he rang the bell, and was shown into her little drawing-room, which seemed to have become a perfect bower of pink and white lilac.
He sat waiting as if in a dream, unable to decide upon his words, unable even to sift his thoughts. The one purpose with which he had come, the one question he designed to ask, was burning in his brain. The minutes of her absence seemed tragically long. He walked up and down, oppressed by the perfume of the flowers. The room seemed too small for him. He longed to throw open all the windows, to escape from the atmosphere, in which for the first time he seemed to find some faint, enervating poison.
Then at last the door opened and Louise entered. She came toward him with a little welcoming smile upon her lips. Her manner was gay, almost affectionate.
"Have you come to take me for a ride before lunch?" she asked. "Do you know, I think that I should really like it! We might lunch at Ranelagh on our way home."
The words stuck in his throat. From where she was, she saw now the writing on his face. She stopped short.
"What is it?" she exclaimed.