“Nor me,” he answered. “When you’ve done, we’ll go and sit in the writing room. That’ll be empty, and we can chat. But I know you’re dog-tired, so I shan’t let you stop up long.”
The smoking room looked more attractive to Medora. There was a haze in the air and a tang of cigar about the portal. A chink of glass and sound of laughter might be heard there. She would have liked to be seen sitting by Mr. Kellock in some comfortable corner, while he too smoked a cigar and drank some whiskey and soda perhaps, or one of the bright drinks in very little glasses. But she blamed herself for the wish. There must be no small fancies of this sort. Her triumph would never be displayed in public smoking rooms. She must realise that from the first. As though to mark the austere heights on which henceforth she would move, Jordan led the way to an empty writing room silent and dark. A decayed fire was perishing in the grate. He fumbled for an electric light and turned it on. Then he shut the door and drew an arm chair to the remains of the fire for her. He took a light chair and placed it opposite her.
“Here we can talk in private,” he said.
She looked at a sofa, but he failed to perceive her glance.
“To-morrow,” he told her, “I begin the day by writing to Mr. Trenchard and your husband.”
“For God’s sake don’t call him that any more. You’ll be telling me I’m Mrs. Dingle in a minute.”
“As a matter of fact you are, Medora. We mustn’t dream beautiful dreams yet. We’ve got to face reality till we alter reality.”
“My life’s not been reality so far—only a nightmare.”
“Reality is nothing more than a question of time now. In fact you may say it’s begun, Medora.”
“Yes, indeed, Jordan dear. You can’t guess what heaven it is to me to know I’m in your strong hands. I’ve come to rest after being tossed by cruel storms—to rest in your arms.”