He went upstairs two steps at a time, and along the familiar corridor, and outside the door paused for the 333 first moment since he had seen his vision on the highroad.
The corridor was already dark, but when he entered in obedience to her languid “Come in,” the fire light made a rosy glow and filled the quiet space with tremulous light.
Patricia sat facing the fire, with her back to the door. He could see her golden head over the back of the chair, and his heart beat quickly.
“May I come and talk to you, Patricia?”
For the moment she did not answer or move. She was almost in doubt if she could accept his presence just now, until he was actually standing on the rug before her, looking down at her with keen, searching eyes, before which all her wild thoughts sunk back into oblivion, and a sense of quiet content and security stole over her.
“What have you been doing?” he demanded. “You look very tired.”
“The result of laziness,” she rejoined, and then was angry with herself for allowing an opening for mere trivialities.
“No, that’s not true, Christopher. It’s a bad day with me. I’m afraid to face anyone, even my own maid.”
With no one else in the world could she have owned so much, and the keen pleasure of exercising her right to open dealing with him, outweighed the humiliation of her avowal.
Christopher seemed intent on his own affairs, however, for he asked her abruptly if St. Michael or Cæsar had told her the news.