The next morning, when Geraldine came downstairs, the house was like an enchanted castle. The sun was streaming in, for it was full day, yet all the rooms were silent and deserted. The little Japanese men had done their work like brownies, and were now invisible, and all the people who had danced the night before were lost in sleep.
She went into the breakfast room and rang, and the butler came hurrying in, smiling cheerfully. She told him what she wanted to eat, and crossed to the window, for a breath of sweet air and a glimpse of the garden in its morning beauty.
The first thing she saw was Sam Randall, on the terrace, smoking a cigarette. Her first impulse was to run away. He was down at the other end, and he had not seen her yet; but she checked herself with a sort of severity. Why should she run away from him? What had she to do with him, or with any of the people in this house? She had judged and condemned them long ago. It was only through a moment’s weakness that she had been betrayed into taking an interest in this man. The weakness was mastered now, and the interest had turned to scorn. He was just like the others—perhaps a little worse!
She heard his leisurely footsteps on the flags outside. She heard him come in through the long window. She knew that he was standing beside her, but she paid no heed until he spoke.
“Good morning!” he said.
Then she looked straight into his face.
“Good morning,” she answered evenly.
She was sorry, then, that she had looked at him, for there was no laughter or arrogance about him now. He seemed subdued and anxious, younger than she had remembered, and somehow appealing.
“Look here!” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you last night. I don’t quite see why—but anyhow, I’m sorry!”
Her breakfast was on the table, and she sat down before it. It occurred to her that her silence was ungracious and unkind, but she knew no way to break it. For all her self-reliance, she was very young and very inexperienced. She could not mask her resentment; she could only hold her tongue.