Now they were going up the hill to the house—the very house.
"You wait a while," she said. "The longer you wait the more you’ll get paid."
The front door stood open, with only a screen door across the aperture, and a faint light from the hall shone out on the roadway. There didn’t seem to be any one about. She stood outside, peering through the screen into the hall, listening. Not a sound!
She was obliged to ring the bell; and who should open the door but the doctor? He didn’t see who it was until he had let her in; then he was frightened at the unexpectedness of her coming, at the wild disorder of her appearance.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"I want to speak to Vincent," she answered. "Where is he?"
"He may be busy. I’d better——”
"Where is he?" she demanded.
When the doctor didn’t answer, she pushed by him and ran up-stairs.
Vincent was lying back in an armchair, in a bath-robe, his slender bare feet on a second chair. He was eating biscuits and cheese from a plate balanced on his knees, and reading a magazine, in the greatest possible comfort, physical and mental, when without an instant’s warning Angelica entered, wild, savage, relentless as a Fury.