The letter never reached Floyd.
Martin stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Julie, who was surrounded by eager applicants, waiting their turn to dance with the “silver-haired beauty.” He took in the soft white neck, the dimpled arms, the small classic head, and that something in the curve of her mouth and yielding smile—a triumphant sensuality. She swept past him. He could have touched her; he stood motionless.
Mary was up early the next morning. She stood looking at Julie, in a deep sleep, her hair falling loose, enveloping her in a veil of unreality; then she shut the door softly and went into the salon. Waiting for her simple breakfast, she watched the passing busses and pedestrians in the street below. All large cities are the same, but different, like people; each individuality giving another form to the Image or material symbol. London has a distinct personality; nobility of character is unmistakably stamped upon it.
The door opened; she turned and saw Martin. There was a momentary fear; then she was her quiet self again. Martin apologized for startling her. They measured each other; he saw an enemy.
“Why are you so antagonistic to me?”
“I’m never antagonistic without reason?”
“What reason have I given you?”
She looked keenly at him. He was well groomed—a clean-shaven, intense face, fascinating for some women; he repelled Mary. He has courage to show his mouth, she thought.
“I have been sent here by Mrs. Garrison’s doctor; she has had a serious illness, you know that.”
“Yes.”