An hour passed, and she grew a little restless. It wasn’t like Lionel to keep her waiting. Why didn’t he telephone? She picked up a book and began to read. Another hour. She made herself a cup of tea and tried to be angry, with all the time a dull alarm in her heart. Six o’clock! Her anxiety grew unbearable, in that silent flat, worse than alone. She was not much given to tears, but she shed some now. It grew dark; she lighted a lamp and pulled down the shades and flung herself on the sofa.
She thought the same things any woman would have thought; that he had met with an accident, been run over, that he was injured, dying, perhaps dead. Then that he had deserted her, because he no longer loved her. Then that there was some mistake, that he had meant Sunday....
At last there was a ring at the bell, and she flew to open the door. Lionel stood outside.
“Lionel!” she cried. “I’ve been so worried! What has been the matter?”
He said nothing, made no move to enter.
“Come in,” she said impatiently, “and tell me what’s kept you.”
Her alarm increased every minute; there was something queer about him....
She took his arm and pulled him gently into the sitting room; then when she was able to look at him in the lamp-light, she knew. She had seen that silly smile, that flush before, had heard that thick and faltering voice.
Her heart seemed to stop beating; her blazing eyes were fixed on his face.
“You’re drunk,” she said, with what contempt, disgust, and bitterness! “You’d better go.”