“I’m stunned,” he told her, holding her eyes with a grave, direct gaze; “I’m afraid I don’t understand.... How does this happen?”
“Why, of course,” she said, maintaining her artificial elation—“I infer—you’ve finished the play and are hurrying home. So—we meet, dear boy. Isn’t it delightful?”
“But you’re here, on this side—?”
“Oh, just a flying trip. Max wanted me to see Bisson’s new piece at the Porte St. Martin. I decided to go at the last moment—caught the Mauretania on eight hours’ notice—stayed only three days in Paris—booked back on this tub by telegraph—travelled all day to catch it by this wretched, roundabout route. And—and there you are, my dear.”
She concluded with a gesture charmingly ingenuous and disarming; but Staff shook his head impatiently.
“You came over—you passed through London twice—you stayed three days in Paris, Alison—and never let me know?”
“Obviously.” She lifted her shoulders an inch, with a light laugh. “Haven’t I just said as much?... You see, I didn’t want to disturb you: it means so much to—you and me, Staff—the play.”
Dissatisfied, knitting his brows faintly, he said: “I wonder ...!”
“My dear!” she protested gaily, “you positively must not scowl at me like that! You frighten me; and besides I’m tired to death—this wretched rush of travelling! Tomorrow we’ll have a famous young pow-wow, but tonight—! Do say good night to me, prettily, like a dear good boy, and let me go.... It’s sweet to see you again; I’m wild to hear about the play.... Jane!” she called, looking round.
Her maid, a tight-mouthed, unlovely creature, moved sedately to her side. “Yes, Miss Landis.”