She dried her hands and arose, majestic even in her frivolous negligee.
“Very strange!” she murmured.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” she said.
The door opened—and it was Mr. Ross! She took a step forward, with a welcoming smile; then she stopped short.
“Mr. Ross!” she cried. “But—Mr. Ross!”
He did not fail to notice the change in her tone, the vanishing of her smile. It did not surprise him. He stood in the doorway, hat in one hand, the little girl clinging to the other, and he felt that, to her piercing glance, he was a sorry enough figure. He felt shabby, as if he had been long battered by wind and rain; he felt that somehow the emptiness of his pockets was obvious to any one.
“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I’m afraid I’ve disturbed you. I thought perhaps I could see Miss Barron, just for a moment.”
“Come in!” said Mrs. Barron, and, turning to the manicurist, “Later, my dear!” she said.
Ross came in, and the manicurist, gathering her things together on her tray, made haste to escape. She went out, closing the door behind her.