O’Hara gripped the arm of his chair until he felt it crack beneath his fingers. Captain Lawrence was staring at her in undisguised amazement.
“But I say! How in the world will they get along without you?”
“Oh, they’ll get along admirably.” She dismissed it as easily as though it were a luncheon engagement. “That young Lyons is the very man they need; he’s really brilliant and a perfect encyclopædia of information. I’ll see you at the Embassy on Friday, won’t I? Good-night.”
Her arms were about O’Hara before the hall door slammed.
“You’re better now? All right? Oh, you frightened me so! It wasn’t that foolish trick of mine that hurt you? Say no, say no—I couldn’t ever hurt you!”
“Never. I should be whipped for frightening you.” His arms were fast about her, but his eyes were straying. What had she done with that letter? He had caught a glimpse of it, quite a bulky letter, in a large envelope, with a typewritten address—typewritten.
“Have you noticed my hair?” The magic voice was touched with gayety again, and O’Hara brushed the silken mist with his lips, his eyes still seeking. “I remembered what you said, you see; it grows most awfully fast—one of these days it will be as long as Rappunzel’s or Melisande’s. Will you like it then?”
Ah, there it was, face down on the lacquer table. He drew a deep breath.
“Lilah, that letter—what did you say was in that letter?”
There was a sudden stillness in the room; he could hear the painted clock ticking clearly. Then she spoke quietly: