Then the slow drone of the elevator, the three steps to the door, which swung open at the impetus of his knock.
"Gloria!" His voice was trembling. No answer. A faint string of smoke was rising from a cigarette-tray—a number of Vanity Fair sat astraddle on the table.
"Gloria!"
He ran into the bedroom, the bath. She was not there. A negligée of robin's-egg blue laid out upon the bed diffused a faint perfume, illusive and familiar. On a chair were a pair of stockings and a street dress; an open powder box yawned upon the bureau. She must just have gone out.
The telephone rang abruptly and he started—answered it with all the sensations of an impostor.
"Hello. Is Mrs. Patch there?"
"No, I'm looking for her myself. Who is this?"
"This is Mr. Crawford."
"This is Mr. Patch speaking. I've just arrived unexpectedly, and I don't know where to find her."
"Oh." Mr. Crawford sounded a bit taken aback. "Why, I imagine she's at the Armistice Ball. I know she intended going, but I didn't think she'd leave so early."