"Is that you, Dr. Anstice?"
"Yes, Miss Wayne. I wanted to say—but first, may I wish you—many happy returns of your birthday?"
"Thanks very much." Straining his ears to catch every inflection in her voice, Anstice thought he detected a note of coldness. "By the way, were those beautiful sweet-peas from you—the ones that came at twelve o'clock to-day?"
"I sent them, yes." So much, at least, he had permitted himself to do.
"They were lovely—thank you so much for them." Iris spoke with a trifle more warmth, and for a moment Anstice faltered in his purpose. "You are coming to dinner presently, aren't you? Seven o'clock, because of the dance."
"Miss Wayne, I'm sorry ..." the lie almost choked him, but he hurried on, "... I can't get over to Greengates in time for dinner. I—I have a call—into the country—and can't get back before eight or nine."
"Oh!" For a moment Iris was silent, and to the man at the other end of the wire it seemed an eternity before she spoke again. Then: "I'm sorry," said Iris gently. "But you will come to the dance afterwards?"
For a second Anstice wavered. It would be wiser to refuse, to allege uncertainty, at least, to leave himself a loophole of escape did he find it impossible to trust himself sufficiently to go. He opened his lips to tell her he feared it might be difficult to get away, to prepare her for his probable absence; and then:
"Of course I will come to the dance," he said steadily. "I would not miss it for anything in the world!"
And he rang off hastily, fearing what he might be tempted to say if the conversation were allowed to continue another moment.