VIII
Ronnie woke with a start, stared at the window and cursed. Pulling on a dressing-gown he slipped from the room and at the sight of him the woman who was dusting the sideboard paused in her labors.
"I don't want you here today—where is your friend?"
"In the pantry, sir."
"Well, take her with you—ah, François, listen. Turn these women out and then go out yourself—go to the city—and get—buy anything you like, but don't come back before eleven—no twelve."
He waited until the flat was empty and returned to his room. Beryl was lying with her head in the crook of her arm. She was not asleep—nor crying, as he had feared.
"I'm dreadfully sorry, darling—I must have fallen asleep."
"What is the time?" She did not turn but spoke into the pillow.
"Eight—curse it! You can't go home in evening dress."