It was Lily. Something that had been like a band around his heart suddenly loosened, to fasten about his throat. His voice sounded strangled and strange.
“Why, yes,” he said, in the unfamiliar voice. “I'd like to come, of course.”
Edith Boyd watched and listened, with a slightly strained look in her eyes.
“To dinner? But—I don't think I'd better come to dinner.”
“Why not, Willy?”
Mr. William Wallace Cameron glanced around. There was no one about save Miss Boyd, who was polishing the nails of one hand on the palm of the other.
“May I come in a business suit?”
“Why, of course. Why not?”
“I didn't know,” said Willy Cameron. “I didn't know what your people would think. That's all. To-morrow at eight, then. Thanks.”
He hung up the receiver and walked to the door, where he stood looking out and seeing nothing. She had not forgotten. He was going to see her. Instead of standing across the street by the park fence, waiting for a glimpse of her which never came, he was to sit in the room with her. There would be—eight from eleven was three—three hours of her.