She knew at once. He could tell that by the silence. That was like Peter; she would not reply till in control of her tumbled feelings.
At last: “A Merry Christmas to you, Stuart!”
Her mocking accent, in a vivid flash of memory, brought her image to his mind, as he had first seen her: Cavalier poise of the head; boyish figure wrapped close in a bronze cloak, shimmering gold where the light caught it, umber in its shadowy folds; a tingle about her movements, as of some hazardous quest in the air. His master-maid!... And what had he to do with loneliness now?
—“Peter, I want to take you home from Euston to Thatch Lane—to-night—at once. May I?”
A low gurgle of laughter:
“But, dear, I’m due in ten minutes at the Lorrimers’. They have a party.”
“And I’m due since half an hour at the Carlton. I have a party. Peter ... will you come?”
“To your party?”
“No. My God, no. Baldwin will look after all that. To Euston?” Silence again.... He was sure she had gone away from the receiver:
“Peter! Peter! Are you still there?”