"She wants the answer now?" Evelyn repeated dazedly. She put her hand to her head. Calvert's little gesture on the opera night came back to her; a thousand trivial incidents which pointed the way to further possibilities of intimacy between Dora and Farquharson.
"Here's a telegraph form," said Brand. He pushed it towards her, tapping impatiently on the floor. "Well, what are you waiting for? I thought you were a woman of decision."
"Miss Beadon wants to dine here to-night," said Evelyn slowly. The words were wrung from her. Was this the solution of the problem? It was so difficult to judge. She had not meant to see Farquharson again before she left town, but now——
"You are to accept," said Brand, with his hand heavy on her shoulder. "To accept—do you hear?"
He stood waiting as she wrote her answer, noticing the hesitating, illegible scrawl, that was so utterly unlike Evelyn's usual firm hand.
"Miss Beadon, 50 Carlton House Terrace, Shall expect you to-night at eight o'clock.—EVELYN."
"Good!" he said jubilantly. He took up his hat. "I'll take it myself. Clever woman! We're getting thoroughly well in with the Beadons. Miss Dora's a nice girl, too. What a match she'd be for a man who's starting in his career. She'd get him to the top of the tree in half the time it would take any one else."
He left the room whistling. Evelyn, alone, sat on idly at her table, her hands resting upon the book of telegraph forms. Well, she had had her day, a perfect one. No one could take that from her. But there was to-morrow to face, and all the to-morrows still to come.
CHAPTER XI
"Whether you be men or women you will never do anything in the world without courage. It is the greatest quality of the mind—next to honour."—J. L. ALLEN.