“Surely you do not still hope to save that situation?” he exclaimed.
She did not answer, and again there was silence. Then the doorbell rang.
“Shall I answer it?” he asked. “It’s probably Jack slipped up for a private word.”
“I’ll answer it,” she said.
She rose from the couch. He had expected signs of conflict, agony, perhaps tears or hysteria;—if only there should be a real outbreak of hysteria! But her face was composed and clear-eyed.
She returned a moment later, bearing a large box, on its top in gilded letters the name of the florist who had a shop opening on the Mordona’s lobby. She removed the lid and disclosed a rich mass of orchids. On their top lay a small envelope such as florists have in stock for the convenience of patrons. From this she drew a card, which she read and then passed to Clifford without comment. It was Mr. Morton’s card, and on its two sides was closely written:—
I am going to be a lonely man to-morrow. Won’t you save me from myself by dining with me at the Ritz?—and then an act or two of a play, and then supper wherever you like? I’ll telephone you.—The West Indies are heaven just now, and I’m thinking of chartering a yacht. A cruise of a month or so in those waters— But shall we talk it over to-morrow night?
Clifford gazed at her, automatically handing her back the card. Rage surged up in him, and he seized the box from her arms and, stepping to the window near which they stood, he raised it, and threw far out into the Drive some fifty dollars’ worth of orchids. He drew down the window and turned back to her. But her look expressed neither approval nor disapproval.
“Well, you see where you are!” he said grimly. “And you once called them the Golden Doors!”
She nodded, but otherwise did not respond. Her face, fixed absently on his, was intently thoughtful.