IV
But it worried him frightfully. He made up his mind to remonstrate with Rosaleen, and he wrote her another note.
“Will you meet me at the Ritz at four to-morrow? I want to talk to you alone for a few minutes, please.”
At breakfast the next morning came her answer.
“Dear Mr. Landry: Please don’t ask me to do that. I never do. You can always see me here whenever you like.
R. I.”
This astonished him. He hadn’t expected any objection. He felt suddenly desolate and unhappy; he felt that he was not Rosaleen’s own particular friend, who could be permitted all privileges; she was treating him as she would any man; he was simply one of a crowd....
But he went, that same evening. The studio was crowded with people, most of whom he had seen there before. But there was one man whom he did not know, but whom he knew must be the gentlemanly illustrator. A well-dressed, nice-looking young chap, with a silent air of observing, not too favourably, all that went on before him. And his eyes followed Rosaleen all the time, and for her and her only he had a quick and subtle smile.
A feeling which he refused to recognise took possession of Landry, a rage that shook the very foundation of his self-control. He went over to the corner where they stood talking.
“You promised to talk to me alone!” he said, with a manner he had never used before in his life—an outrageous insolence. “Come out and walk round the park, will you?”