“Awful long way to come on a chance,” said Mary. “Maybe I write to him.”
Clare jumped up. “Don’t you dare!” she cried. “If I thought for a moment—if I thought he had been brought, I should be perfectly hateful to him. I couldn’t help myself—Is that a motor at the gate?”
“Yes, Miss, a taxi-cab.”
“Stopping here?”
“Yes, Miss,”—with absolute calm: “Stonor is gettin’ out.”
“What!—Oh, Mary!—It can’t be!—It is!”
A bell rang.
“Oh, Mary! What shall I do? Don’t go to the door! Let him wait a minute. Let me think what I must do. Let me get upstairs!”
Stonor got up and sat down, and got up again. He walked to the window and back to the door. He listened for sounds in the house, and then went back to his chair again. He heard a sound overhead and sprang to the door once more. He saw her on the stairs, and retreated back into the room. She came down with maddening deliberation, step by step. She did not look through the door, but paused a second to straighten a picture that hung askew on the wall. Stonor’s heart was beating like a trip-hammer.
She came into the room smiling in friendly fashion with a little gush of speech—but her eyes did not quite meet his.