“If you’re going right back, my dear, I wish you’d look Elsa up and tell her I won’t be in till late. And feed with us to-night at Limpold, will you? And take some hot grog when you get in.”
“Thanks, old fellow, I’m all right. Going back now.”
He rose, stretched himself, buttoned on his heavy coat and lighted another cigarette.
From the door Victor watched him plunging through the heavy snow—head bent—hands thrust in his pockets—he almost appeared to be running through the heavy snow towards the town.
Someone came stamping up the stairs—paused at the door of her sitting-room, and knocked.
“Is that you, Victor?” she called.
“No, it is I... can I come in?”
“Of course. Why, what a Santa Claus! Hang your coat on the landing and shake yourself over the banisters. Had a good time?”
The room was full of light and warmth. Elsa, in a white velvet tea-gown, lay curled up on the sofa—a book of fashions on her lap, a box of creams beside her.