Maria frowned slightly, and for an instant the colour left her cheeks. Then, as if her will predominated immediately, she proceeded towards her husband’s study, and not a shadow of her recent emotion appeared on her recomposed face.
Seated behind his desk Emilio was writing a letter and smoking a cigarette. He did not raise his head.
“Well, Emilio,” asked his wife in a soothing voice, standing in the middle of the room, “aren’t you dressed for the meet?”
“No,” he replied, raising his head from his letter absently, “I am not dressed.”
“Wasn’t this the hour?” she continued gently; “ten o’clock, I think.”
“Yes, ten o’clock,” and he lowered his head, resuming his writing.
Maria’s gloved hand nervously clutched the onyx knob of her parasol.
“Well, well,” she asked again, with a certain insistency. Emilio let his pen fall, throwing it on the table, pushed the letter aside, and leaning back in his chair regarded his wife for a long time earnestly without speaking.
“I have decided not to go to this last meet.”
“Ah!” said Maria only.