"Amounts to nothing," he replied, almost gruffly. "I'll write a little note to Alix, if you'll be so good as to take it up to her."
"Very well. I'll see that she gets it. Will you write it here?"
"If you don't mind. I'll wait in case she wants to send down an answer."
"I'll get you some paper and pen and ink," said she.
"Some paper, that's all. I have a fountain pen."
He dashed off a few lines, folded the sheet of note paper and handed it to Mrs. Strong. He had written nothing he was unwilling for her to read. In fact, he expected her to read it as soon as she was safely out of his sight.
"She thinks she may feel up to seeing you tomorrow—or next day," reported the housekeeper on her return from Alix's room.
His rankling brain seized upon the words—" tomorrow—next day." He had used them himself only the night before. "Tomorrow,—or next day!" He frowned. Hang it all, was she putting him off? He experienced a slight chill.
"I will run in again in the morning," he said, managing to produce a sympathetic smile. "And I'll telephone this evening to see how she is."
All the way down the walk to the gate, he kept repeating the words "tomorrow,—or next day." In some inexplicable way they had fastened themselves upon him. At the gate he turned and looked up at Alix's bedroom windows. The lace curtains hung straight and immovable. It pleased him to think that she was peering out at him from behind one of those screens of lace, soft-eyed and longingly. Moved by a sudden impulse, he waved his hand and smiled.