Cassandra lifted her head and stared blankly, then with cold displeasure, into the intruder’s face. There was not the faintest tinge of embarrassment in her mien, nothing but surprise, and anger, and an intolerable impatience. She sat in silence, struggling to collect her thoughts, and the while she stared, Grizel stepped lightly over the threshold, and seated herself on one of the scattered chairs. It was done so quickly that there was no time for protest, if protest had been possible, and Cassandra, biting her lip, turned towards Dane for support. He had risen to his feet, and looked miserable and embarrassed as a man is bound to do when placed in an awkward situation. Cassandra looked for signs of an anger corresponding to her own, failed to find it, and in consequence felt angrier than before. Her voice was steely in its hauteur.
“Did you wish to see me?”
“Please!” said Grizel softly. Her hazel eyes met Peignton’s with a long, straight glance, whose message he could not misunderstand. He flushed, and held out his hand.
“I’ll go... Good-bye—”
“I shall see you again. I am free on Wednesday and on Friday.” Cassandra spoke in a heightened voice, as though scorning an attempt at deceit. “You will meet me here?”
“Yes. Yes. I’ll let you know—”
He dropped her hand, bowed slightly to Grizel, and swung rapidly away, leaving the two women alone.
“Grizel Beverley,” said Cassandra deliberately, “I hate you!”
“Poor darling!” said Grizel, trembling. “Of course you do!” She shook out a minute handkerchief, and wiped the moisture from her face. It dawned on Cassandra’s perceptions that she was deathly pale.
“Why did you come?”