“I'll do my part,” he said resignedly, “and next fall will see us married, so———”
The telephone-bell in the hall was ringing. Frederic released Lydia's hand and sat up rather stiffly, as one who suddenly suspects that he is being spied upon. The significance of the movement did not escape Lydia. She laughed mirthlessly.
“I will see who it is,” she said, and arose. Two red spots appeared in his cheeks. Then it was that she realised he had been waiting all along for the bell to ring; he had been expecting a summons.
“If it's for me, please say—er—say I'll———” he began, somewhat disjointedly, but she interrupted him.
“Will you stay here for luncheon, Frederic? And this afternoon we will go to—oh, is there a concert or a recital———”
“Yes, I'll stay if you'll let me,” he said wistfully. “We'll find something to do.”
She went to the telephone. He heard the polite greetings, the polite assurances that she had not taken cold, two or three laughing rejoinders to what must have been amusing comments on the storm and its effect on timid creatures, and then:
“Yes, Mrs Brood, I will call him to the phone.”