“Is that clock right, Ferris?” The high thin voice, as heard by herself, sounded to Helen quite unlike her own.
“Yes, m’m, I believe so.”
“You needn’t draw the curtains. I’ll attend to those myself.”
“Thank you, m’m.”
The parlor maid went out of the room.
LIX
AS none knew better than Helen, it was a foible of the Colossus always to be “on time.” Punctuality is the soul of business, she had heard him say was his favorite aphorism.
The minutes ticked on, however, and she listened in vain for a ring at the front door bell. She went up to the drawing-room window and looked down into the Square. The street lamp, just opposite the front door, was already lit. The December evening was fast closing in. She listened tensely for the sound of an approaching car. Her eyes tried to pierce the fog, which after hanging about all day had increased considerably during the last hour.
A quarter past four struck. Helen had now ceased to think of anything she did, but proceeded to draw the heavy curtains across the window. And then guided by the bright glow of the fire she went to the door and switched on the light.
All at once it dawned upon her that now she would have to meet a fact that as yet had not taken shape in her mind. The Colossus might not come. It was so unlike him to be late. And he was such a busy man, with so many calls upon his time, that something might have intervened at the last moment to prevent his coming. But in that case, she argued, man of method as he was and respecter in small matters of the rights of others, he would almost certainly have let her know.