“Come at once—oh, Fred, you must!”
She heard: “Is there anything wrong?” and sent him a reassuring laugh.
“Nothing—except me. I don’t yet know how to fit in. There are so many things I ought to be told. Remember, I’m so unprepared—”
She fancied she felt a tremor of disapproval along the wire. Ought she not to have gone even as far as that on the telephone?
“Anne’s out,” she added hastily. “I was tired, and she told me to rest. But I can’t. How can I? Can’t you come?”
He returned, without the least acceleration of the syllables: “I never leave the office until—”
“Five. I know. But just today—”
There was a pause. “Yes; I’ll come, of course. But you know there’s nothing in the world to bother about,” he added patiently. (“He’s saying to himself,” she thought, “‘that’s the sort of fuss that used to drive poor Clephane out of his wits’.”)
But when he came he did not strike her as having probably said anything of the sort. There was no trace of “the office”, or of any other preoccupation, in the friendly voice in which he asked her if she wouldn’t please stay lying down, and let him do the talking.
“Yes, I want you to. I want you to tell me everything. And first of all—” She paused to gather up her courage. “What does Anne know?” she flung at him.