She turned toward the door at once, as though welcoming a summons which so opportunely relieved her from embarrassing explanations: but Varney, who happened to have duties to her father to discharge, stood before her, not moving.
"Just now in the theatre," he said pleasantly, "you cut me. That was for him. I understood. But is there any valid reason why you should not stay on speaking terms with—Laurence Varney?"
To his surprise, a vivid red swept up her face from throat to hair and her eyes fluttered and fell.
"Please," she said, "don't ask me to discuss this any more."
Varney stood aside, bowing, to let her pass out.
"I shall bring you proofs of my identity to-morrow, since that seems necessary," he said with a laugh. "You won't refuse to see me, if you care anything about being fair. But shall I tell you something, Miss Carstairs? In your heart you believe me now!"
At the outer door, Varney all but collided with a man listlessly entering, and, glancing up, saw that it was the pale young editor, Coligny Smith.
"I hope you enjoyed the meeting," flung out Varney in passing.
"Why, greetings—greetings!" said Mr. Smith, a mocking smile on his thin lips. "I've just been out to buy your picture, Beany."
With which singular rejoinder, he slipped by into the lobby.