“She told me nothing about him,” he answered.
Wingrave passed on to his own room. His breakfast was on the table awaiting him, and a little pile of letters and newspapers stood by his plate. His servant, his head groom, and his chauffeur were there to receive their orders for the morning. About him were all the evidences of his well-ordered life. He sent both the men away and locked the door. It was half an hour before he touched either his breakfast or his letters....
He lunched at Westchester House in obedience to a somewhat imperative summons. There were other guests there, whom, however, he outstayed. As soon as they were alone, his hostess touched him on the arm and led him to her own room.
“At last!” she exclaimed, with an air of real relief. “There, sit down opposite to me, please—I want to watch your face.”
She was a little paler than usual, and he noticed that she had avoided talking much to him at luncheon time. And yet he thought that he had never seen her more beautiful. Something in her face had altered. He could not tell what it was for he was not a man of much experience as regarded her sex. Yet, in a vague sort of way, he understood the change. A certain part of the almost insolent quietness, the complete self-assurance of her manner, had gone. She was a little more like an ordinary woman!
“Lady Ruth proved herself an excellent tactician last night,” she remarked. “She has given me an exceedingly uncomfortable few hours. For you, well for you it was a respite, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know that I should call it exactly that,” he answered thoughtfully.
She looked at him steadfastly, almost wistfully.
“Well,” she said, “I am not going to make excuses for myself. But the things which one says naturally enough when the emotions provoke them sound crude enough in cold blood and colder daylight. We women are creatures of mood, you know. I was feeling a little lonely and a little tired last night, and the music stole away my common sense.”
“I understand,” he murmured. “All that you said shall be forgotten.”