“Can you come right over, Jack,—with your car?... No, don’t bring your chauffeur; drive yourself.... Why? I’ll tell you that when you come—only bring plenty of wraps.... All right, I’ll be ready; come right up.”
“He’ll be over in fifteen minutes,” she said to Clifford. “You may wait if you like. But you’ll excuse me.”
She passed into her bedroom. Clifford sank rather limply into a chair. He had come to what just then seemed the supreme crisis of his life, and he was still dazed at the way he had willed that crisis to eventuate. He sat thinking—thinking; the minutes she was out were long minutes to him.
Presently she reëntered. She had changed to a black velvet suit trimmed with black fur; a small fur hat sat snugly down upon her thick, dark hair; and she carried a fur motor-coat. She was an unforgettable picture for him: the high color of her dark face against the background of soft and sheeny blacks.
She did not address Clifford; but there was little time for their silence to become awkward, for almost at once the bell of the suite rang. Mary went to the door, and admitted Jack Morton. The pleasant-faced young fellow looked most comfortably handsome in his great motoring-coat of raccoon.
“I say, Mary, this is certainly fine!” he cried, after he had kissed her. “And, hello—there’s Bob Clifford. How’s the old boy?” He shook Clifford’s hand warmly. “But say, Mary, what’s doing?”
Mary looked at Morton when she replied, but her voice was directed at Clifford: “I’ve decided, Jack, to give in to you. I’m ready to be married at once—to-day.”
“Hurrah!” cried young Morton, seizing both her hands. “But we’ll have to keep it quiet—same as we planned. You’re ready now?”
She did not answer. Clifford noted that her body tautened and her breath was held—as one who waits for a blow; and he understood that she was waiting for, and expecting him to speak the truth about her.
She slowly turned and looked at Clifford. Surprise that he had said nothing was in her face. Then she turned back to Morton.