With a feeling akin to nausea she pulled up in time to watch this short, squat figure disappear within the precincts of Number Five. For a reason she couldn’t explain she was quite sure that this was none other than Mr. Charles Cheesewright. She didn’t know him; if a back view meant anything she had no wish to know him; certainly she had no desire to make his acquaintance going up in the lift.
She hung back a discreet three minutes on the pavement of Broad Place before daring to enter the vestibule of Number Five, Victoria Mansions. By then the coast was clear; Mr. Charles Cheesewright, apparently, had gone up in the Otis elevator. And she stood on the mat, drawn and tense, a figure of tragedy, waiting for the Otis elevator to come down again.
III
At last the Otis elevator came down and she went up in it. And then confronted by the door of the flat, she peered through the glass panel to make sure that Mr. Charles Cheesewright was not standing the other side of it; then she opened it with a furtive key, slipped in, and stole past the half-open door of the tiny drawing-room through which came the penetrating accents of Mrs. Wren attuned to the reception of “company.”
Once in her own room her first act was to look in the glass with a lurking sense of horror; the second was to decide, which she instantly did, that it would be quite impossible to meet Mr. Cheesewright, and that she didn’t need any luncheon.
By the time she had taken off her hat and made herself a little more presentable, both these decisions had grown immutable. She could not meet Mr. Cheesewright, she did not want any luncheon. All she needed was complete solitude, and perhaps a cigarette. But all too soon was she ravished of even these modest requirements. Milly burst suddenly into the room.
“Twenty past one!” she cried reproachfully. “I didn’t hear you come in. We are waiting for you.”
Mary saw that her plan must be given up. If she really meant to forgo a meal and the honor of Mr. Cheesewright’s acquaintance there would have to be a satisfactory explanation. But what explanation could she make? Certainly none that would conceal the truth. And at that moment she wished almost savagely for it to be concealed. Confronted by a choice of evils she made a dash at the less.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll be with you in one minute.”
Sheer pride forced her tone to a superhuman lightness, verging on gayety. But there was a formidable member of her sex to deal with. In spite of that heroic note, Milly was not to be taken in; she looked at the dissembler with eyes that saw a great deal too much. “I expect you’ve taken a pretty bad toss, my fine lady,” they seemed to say.