He followed her and laid his hand on her arm. “Don’t you think—hadn’t you better let me go first and see? They told me they’d had a tiring day at the dressmaker’s* I daresay they have gone to bed.”
“But you said they’d a young man of Charlotte’s dining with them. Surely he wouldn’t have left by ten? At any rate, I’ll go down with you and see. It takes so long if one sends a servant first” She put him gently aside, and then paused as a new thought struck her. “Or wait; my maid’s in the next room. I’ll tell her to go and ask if Margaret will receive me. Yes, that’s much the best way.”
She turned back and went toward the door that led to her bedroom; but before she could open it she felt Ide’s quick touch again.
“I believe—I remember now—Charlotte’s young man was suggesting that they should all go out—to a musichall or something of the sort. I’m sure—I’m positively sure that you won’t find them.”
Her hand dropped from the door, his dropped from her arm, and as they drew back and faced each other she saw the blood rise slowly through his sallow skin, redden his neck and ears, encroach upon the edges of his beard, and settle in dull patches under his kind troubled eyes. She had seen the same blush on another face, and the same impulse of compassion she had then felt made her turn her gaze away again.
A knock on the door broke the silence, and a porter put his head’ into the room.
“It’s only just to know how many pieces there’ll be to go down to the steamer in the morning.”
With the words she felt that the veil of painted gauze was torn in tatters, and that she was moving again among the grim edges of reality.
“Oh, dear,” she exclaimed, “I never can remember! Wait a minute; I shall have to ask my maid.”
She opened her bedroom door and called out: “Annette!”