“You look tired,” said Ida, sympathetically.
“Oh, I am tired,” replied Ora, her arms hanging. “Tired. Tired.”
“It’s a long while since you danced like that. Just drop into bed. Lend me a scarf, will you?”
She covered her opened gown with the lace and walked slowly over to her room. Then she suddenly turned back to the head of the stairs. The three men were still talking below.
“Gregory,” she called, and her voice was very sweet.
“Yes?”
“Lock up, will you? The servants have gone to bed.”
“I will.”
“Don’t forget,” and omitting to add a good-night, she went swiftly to her room, changed her formal evening gown for a soft combination of yellow silk and lace that made her look like a tulip in a primrose bed, let down the black masses of her hair, and threw herself into a deep chair. But there was no repose in her attitude. More than once her body stiffened and she raised her head. Pride and shrewdness forbade her to leave her door open, and it would be impossible to hear that light panther-like tread on the heavy carpet of the stair. The front door might have closed while she was changing in the dressing-room.
Suddenly she heard it slam. Nervous as she was she smiled reminiscently. Gregory might be soft of foot, but otherwise he was as noisy as most men. Then the smile froze until her lips were distended in a grin. Another door had slammed. Gregory was in his own room.