Grayson came in and closed the door behind him. Anger and anxiety were in his worn old face, and Lily got up quickly. “What is it, Grayson?”
“I'm sorry, Miss Lily. He was in the vestibule behind Mrs. Denslow, and I couldn't keep him out. I think he had waited for some one to call, knowing I couldn't make a scene.”
Mademoiselle turned to Lily.
“You must not see him,” she said in rapid French. “Remain here, and I shall telephone for your father. Lock your door. He may come up. He will do anything, that man.”
“I am going down,” Lily said quietly. “I owe him that. You need not be frightened. And don't tell mother; it will only worry her and do no good.”
Her heart was beating fast as she went down the stairs. From the drawing room came the voices of Grace and Mrs. Denslow, chatting amiably. The second man was carrying in tea, the old silver service gleaming. Over all the lower floor was an air of peace and comfort, the passionless atmosphere of daily life running in old and easy grooves.
When Lily entered the library she closed the door behind her. She had, on turning, a swift picture of Grayson, taking up his stand in the hall, and it gave her a sense of comfort. She knew he would remain there, impassively waiting, so long as Akers was in the house.
Then she faced the man standing by the center table. He made no move toward her, did not even speak at once. It left on her the burden of the opening, of setting the key of what was to come. She was steady enough now.
“Perhaps it is as well that you came, Louis,” she said. “I suppose we must talk it over some time.”
“Yes,” he agreed, his eyes on her. “We must. I have married a wife, and I want her, Lily.”