"You have my promise," she cut him short coldly. "Wait for me." And she turned back to the house.
Wondering, P. Sybarite went to meet her. Impulsively she gave him her hand a second time; with as little reflection, he took it in both his own.
"Is there nothing I can do?"
Her voice was broken: "I don't know. I must go—it's imperative.... Could you—?... I wonder!"
"Anything you ask," he asserted confidently.
Hesitating briefly, in a tone little above a whisper: "I must go," she repeated. "I can't refuse. But—alone. Do you understand—?"
"You mean—without him?" P. Sybarite nodded toward the man fuming in the gateway.
"Yes. If you could suggest something to detain him long enough for me to get into the cab and say one word to the chauffeur—"
The chest of P. Sybarite swelled.
"Leave it to me," he said with fine simplicity.