“Why, certainly,” he agreed without hesitation or apprehension.
The actress had put up, in accordance with her custom, at a handsome, expensive and world-famous hotel in the immediate neighbourhood of Staff’s rooms. Consequently he found himself in her presence within fifteen minutes from the end of their talk by telephone.
Dressed for the street and looking uncommonly handsome, she was waiting for him in the sitting-room of her suite. As he entered, she came forward and gave him a cool little hand and a greeting as cool. He received both with an imperturbability founded (he discovered to his great surprise) on solid indifference. It was hard to realise that he no longer cared for her, or whether she were pleased or displeased with him. But he didn’t. He concluded, not without profound amazement, that his passion for her which had burned so long and brightly had been no more than sentimental incandescence. And he began to think himself a very devil of a fellow, who could toy with the love of women with such complete insouciance, who could off with the old love before he had found a new and care not a rap!...
Throughout this self-analysis he was mouthing commonplaces—assuring her that the day was fine, that he had never felt better, that she was looking her charming best. Of a sudden his vision comprehended an article which adorned the centre-table; and words forsook him and his jaw dropped.
It was the bandbox: not that which he had left, with its cargo of trash, in his rooms.
Alison followed his glance, elevated her brows, and indicated the box with a wave of her arm.
“And what d’ you know about that?” she enquired bluntly.
“Where did it come from?” he counter-questioned, all agape.
“I’m asking you.”
“But—I know nothing about it. Did Miss Searle send it—?”