"Write a note if you like, and I'll see what I can do," he replied.
At once she got up and went into the salon where she had noticed a writing-table. The place was more like a hall than a room; a spreading columned apartment, with walls and floor and ceiling of white marble, where fountains played into fern-grown basins and palms stood in huge, gilded tubs. There were deep, soft, silk-covered chairs and lounges, a sprinkling of gilded tables, and a large grand piano.
Some minutes later Pansy returned to her host with a letter in her hand.
He took it, and then rose to go.
"You mustn't sit up too late," he said, looking down at her with an air of possession; "you've had a trying day, and don't worry any more about anything or anybody."
So saying, he left her.
Full of gratitude, Pansy watched him go. And her conscience smote her.
On the whole she had treated him rather badly. She had promised to marry him, and then had gone back on her word. She did not deserve his kindness and consideration.
He had been so cold and harsh that night on her yacht in Grand Canary. He was none of these things now. He was just as he had been during their one brief week of friendship, but even nicer.
Pansy sighed, and her face grew wistful.