He noticed that her taxicab was waiting.
Still in her shimmering, silken, summery dinner-gown of the earlier evening, a light chiffon wrap draped round her shoulders, she entered the vestibule, paused and stood smiling mischievously into his grave, enquiring eyes.
“Surprised you—eh, Staff?” she laughed.
“Rather,” said he, bending over her hand and wondering at her high spirit of gaiety so sharply in contrast with her determined and domineering humour of a few hours since. “Why?” he asked, shutting the outside door.
“Just wanted to see you alone for a few moments; I’ve something to say to you—something very important and surprising.... But not down here.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said contritely. He motioned toward the stairs: “There’s no elevator, but it’s only one flight up ...”
“No elevator! Heavens!” she cried in mock horror. “And this is how the other half lives!”
She caught up her skirts and ran up the stairs with footsteps so light that he could hear nothing but the soft, continuous murmuring of her silken gown.
“Genius,” he said, ironic, as he followed her—“Genius frequently needs a lift but is more often to be found in an apartment without one. Permit me”—he flung wide the door to his study—“to introduce you to the garret.”
“So this is where you starve and write!”