And in the next, the telephone rang in the boudoir. Lucinda was in her bath, so her maid answered for her, and presently came to report: Mr. Druce had called up to say he wouldn't be dining at home that night, he was detained by a "conference."
Without looking, Lucinda knew that the woman's eyes were demure, her lips twitching.
Her just anger of that afternoon recurred with strength redoubled.
Not that she had been looking forward with any eagerness to the evening, the "quiet" dinner during which Bel would defiantly continue his tippling, the subsequent hours at the opera poisoned by forebodings, the homeward drive in antagonized silence, finally the trite old scene behind closed doors, of the piqued wife and the peccant husband, with its threadbare business of lies, aggrieved innocence, attempts at self-extenuation, ultimate collapse and confession, tears of penitence and empty promises ... and her own spirit failing and in the end yielding to Bel's importunity, out of sheer weariness and want of hope.
It had been sad enough to have all that to anticipate. To be left in this fashion, at loose ends, not knowing what to expect, except the worst, was too much.
On leaving her bath Lucinda delayed only long enough to shrug into a dressing-gown before going to the telephone.
The voice that responded to her call said it thought Mr. Daubeney had just left the club, but if madame would hold the wire it would make sure.
She knew a moment of pure exasperation with the evident conspiracy of every circumstance in her despite.
Then the apparatus at her ear pronounced in crisp impatience: "Yes? This is Mr. Daubeney. Who wants him, please?"
"Oh, Dobbin! I'm so glad."