Adrian prattled merrily over the luncheon table. I wonder how many of his words Anthony took in.
After luncheon he tramped about the park, counting the slow minutes,—kissing her hands, looking into her eyes, racking his brain with speculations as to what she might have to tell him, hoping, fearing, and counting the long slow minutes. And his tug at Susanna's doorbell coincided with the very first stroke of three from her billiard-room clock.
His throat was dry, his pulses pounded, his knees all but knocked together under him, as he followed the manservant across the hall, into her presence.
XVIII
Susanna returned her cue to the rack.
Anthony stood near the door, an incarnate question.
"Well—?" he demanded, in a voice that was tense.
"Come in," she amiably welcomed him. "Sit down."
She pointed to a chair. She wore the same white frock that she had worn before luncheon, only she had stuck a red rose in her belt.
He did n't sit down, but he came forward, and stood by the fireplace.