But he did not go on. They reached the apartment building, and Horatia, pulling out her latch-key long before it was necessary, rang for the elevator.
“Your friend is there?” asked Langley, suddenly, sharply.
This time it was Horatia’s turn to flush. She dropped from the clouds.
“Of course,” she said, impatiently. “But I like to use my latch-key.”
She rapped on the door where a card already announced the names of Miss Walsh and Miss Grant. There was no answer and she unlocked the door and pushed it open. A note lay on the little table in the hall. Horatia picked it up and read it. Then she turned to Langley with her head a little higher than usual.
“Grace had to go downtown for some things. She’ll be back later. You can come in anyway, can’t you, and let me show you the place?”
His eyes met hers squarely.
“It’s better not,” he said, quietly.
They stood confronting the silly, awkward little situation with varying emotions. His rage at the fact that he couldn’t be natural for fear of compromising her—that he had to protect her not from himself but from his reputation, was natural enough. And Horatia raged because she did not know that she dared urge him, and she wanted to.
“It’s absurd,” she cried impatiently. “It’s stupid. It’s beastly. You’ve been abominably treated. Do you think I care what people say?”