François opened the door, and Evie walked hesitatingly into the lobby.
Ronnie was at his table and he was writing. He got up at once and came to meet her with outstretched hand.
"It was good of you to come, Evie."
She started. His voice was so changed—his expression, too. Something had come into his face that was not there before. A vitality, an eagerness, a good humor. She was startled into beginning on a personal note.
"Why, Ronnie, dear, you have changed!"
She did not recognize how far she had departed from a certain program and agenda she had drawn up. Item number one was "not to call Ronnie, 'dear'."
"Have I?" He flashed a smile at her as he pushed a chair forward and put a cushion at her back.
"Your voice even, have you had a cold?"
"No. I am getting old," he chuckled at the jest. Ronnie did not as a rule laugh at himself. "I had your letter about Lola. I thought it best that you should come. Yes, Evie, all that was in the paper was true. I know Lola."
"And she has been—all that you said, to you?"