“When?” he asked, leaning forward to hear, and the word was “Saturday,” uttered with a feeble harshness, not like the gentle voice of Dahlia.
“This coming Saturday?”
“No.”
“Saturday week?”
She fell into a visible trembling.
“You named the day?”
He pushed for an indication of cheerful consent to the act she was about to commit, or of reluctance.
Possibly she saw this, for now she answered, “I did.” The sound was deep in her throat.
“Saturday week,” said Robert. “I feel to the man as a brother, already. Do you live—you'll live in the country?”
“Abroad.”