XXVII
The motor stopped. She had arrived at her house. The car door was opened by H. R.
She started back. Then she looked at him curiously, almost awe-strickenly, as though her wishes had taken on magical properties of automatic fulfilment.
Was this the same remarkable person she had almost deified on the way from Raquin's exhibition? What would he say? She prayed that he might not spoil everything, by some inanity.
He held out his hand to help her alight. Then he spoke.
"It was time!" he said, and walked beside her—but a couple of inches ahead. That was because, though he was an American husband-to-be, he also was a man, a protector, a leader. Such men are cave-men minus the club.
Grace at times was not a true Goodchild. This time she said nothing.
Frederick opened the door. His face expressed no sense of the unusualness of the sight.
H. R., with the air of a host, led Grace into the drawing-room. He stood beside her in the gorgeous Louis XV. room.