Freda hung back a little.
“It’s rather an outrageous thing to do. I wonder if I should.”
“Nonsense. Anyway, you’ve no choice. I’m bringing my refugee here myself.”
They tiptoed into the little hallway and rang her bell—then went over by her door. It was characteristic of Margaret that she did not call, “Who’s there?” from behind the door. She opened her door a little and looked out.
“It’s I,” said Gregory, softly, “and a distressed lady, whom you know. Can we come in?”
The door opened wider and Margaret put out her hand as Freda shrunk back a little.
“Why, Freda—where did you come from?” Margaret looked at Gregory, but he waited for Freda to tell her own story, perhaps not knowing how much she wanted to tell.
In the light again, Freda had blushed scarlet and then turned pale, her cheeks wonderfully waxen and lustrous from the night air. Under her eyes there were circles of fatigue and her hair had clung to her head, damp from moisture. She looked at Margaret and seemed to remember that her adventure had begun in disaster.
“I’m so sorry to bother you like this—I’m so sorry. But he said I’d better.”
Again Margaret exchanged glances with Gregory. Gregory was looking at Margaret now as if he were conscious of the picture she made in the blue Grecian negligée which suited that slim, straight figure so well. But if she noticed his glance, she was impatient of it.