Yet he still hesitated. His heart was beating like a sledge-hammer and his hands were trembling. Never had he experienced such a curious sensation before and he wondered vaguely what could be the matter with him.
"I can't stand here forever," he said in his heart. "I wanted to see her; well then, why don't I open the door? I am behaving like a fool!"
Still reasoning with himself, he finally entered the room.
A bright fire was burning on the hearth and before it were heaped a number of cushions and from this lowly seat Anita had apparently hastily arisen. The length of time he had taken to answer her summons had evidently alarmed her, for she stood like a creature at bay, her eyes wide open and frightened. On recognising Cyril a deep blush suffused her face and even coloured the whiteness of her throat.
"So it was you!" she exclaimed.
Her relief was obvious, yet her manner was distant, almost repellent. Cyril had confidently anticipated such a different reception that her unexpected coldness completed his discomfiture. He felt as if the foundations of his world were giving away beneath his feet. He managed, however, to murmur something, he knew not what. The pounding of his heart prevented him from thinking coherently. When his emotion had subsided sufficiently for him to realise what he was doing, he found himself sitting stiffly on one side of the fire with Anita sitting equally stiffly on the other. She was talking—no, rather she was engaging him in polite conversation. How long she had been doing so he did not know, but he gathered that it could not have been long, as she was still on the subject of the weather.
"It has been atrocious in London. I hope you had better luck in the country. To-day has been especially disagreeable," she was saying.
Cyril abused the weather with a vigour which was rather surprising, in view of the fact that till she had mentioned it, he had been sublimely unconscious whether the sun had been shining or not. But finally even that prolific topic was exhausted and as no other apparently suggested itself to either, they relapsed into a constrained silence.
Cyril was suffering acutely. He had so longed to see her, and now an impalpable barrier had somehow arisen between them which separated them more completely than mere bricks and mortar, than any distance could have done. True, he could feast his eyes on her cameo-like profile; on the soft curve of her cheek; on the long, golden-tipped lashes; on the slender, white throat, which rose like a column from the laces of her dress. But he dared not look at her too long. Cyril was not introspective and was only dimly aware of the cause of the turmoil which was raging in his heart. He did not know that he averted his eyes for fear that the primitive male within him would break loose from the fetters of his will and forcibly seize the small creature so temptingly within his reach.
"If I only knew what I have done to displease her!" he said to himself.