He smiled—he heard her speaking.
"If you ever write, the address is 'Miss Tattie Lascelles, c/o Madame Hermiance, 42 bis Great Titchfield Street, W.' You understand? You aren't to put my name on the outside envelope at all. Blithepoint is blessing you.—R.D."
If he ever wrote, did she say? By his halidom he was going to write immediately! His impulse was to beg her to dine with him, but probably she would find it easier to meet him during the day. Luncheon then. But where? The choice of a restaurant bothered him—she might be afraid of acquaintances seeing her. He bethought himself of the Café Anonyme in Soho, and entreated her to lunch with him on Thursday at two o'clock. As a postscript he scribbled, "You won't say you can't, will you? If I don't hear from you, I shall be waiting for you at the door." To enable her to reply, though he prayed that no reply would come, he added that he should stay at the Carlton.
He was glad to leave Blithepoint; when the woman one liked there has gone, a place is always distressing. In the train it was agreeable to reflect that she had read his note by this time. Again he imagined her as she read it—looking down, looking up, putting it in her pocket. The little Café Anonyme had been a good idea. They would do their best for him there, and their soles à la Marguery were unequalled in London. The private rooms, too, were not unhomely, they hit the happy medium—there was no riot of red velvet and gilding, nor were there rag roses hanging askew in dusty glass epergnes. It would have been unappreciative—it would have been an insult—to ask Rosalind to be made love to in a vulgar room.
He wandered about the Carlton after dinner until the last post was delivered, and was relieved to find there was nothing for him. He was sure that if she hadn't meant to go, she would have declined at once. She wouldn't raise his hopes only to dash them to the parquetry as the clock was preparing to strike; she wouldn't be thoughtless, unfeeling. Oh no, she wasn't like that!
And there was no letter on Thursday either, and he sallied to Soho with delight.
The exterior of the Café Anonyme when he reached it looked to him a shade less ingenuous than it had been, but upstairs all was well. The view of the grim houses opposite was screened by lace, firelight flashed on the Dutch hearth cheerfully, and the little white table, set for tête-à-tête, invited confidences. He forced his attention upon the menu, and lounged back into the street. It was a fine day for London. The sky was funereal, and the pavements were muddy, but there was no rain falling. He loitered before the restaurant happily, and glanced at his watch. At five minutes to two, expectation began to swell.
At two o'clock he couldn't hold back a smile—at any instant now her face might irradiate the blank. He wondered which way she would come, and if she would drive, or walk. He could see for some distance, both to right and left, and his only regret was that he couldn't see both ways at once. He kept turning his head, fearful that he might miss a second's joy.
There was a leaping moment in which a figure suggested her as it hove in sight. The girl proved offensively plain, and he was furious with her as she passed. Somehow he did not rebound from the mistake—it was the first fall in the temperature; the girl had killed his elation. He watched now eagerly, but he repressed no smile.
She was late. Oh, of course she would come, but the fish would be spoilt. Rather stupid of her! There was nothing more irritating than to have a careful luncheon ruined because a woman took twenty minutes to tie her veil. A melancholy church clock boomed the quarter. He began to feel that he was looking a fool, traversing these twelve paving-stones. He was annoyed with her—he should be at no pains to conceal it!