“Never mind. Tell him an old friend.”
He left her in a little ante-room, dainty, extravagant, luxurious, with an oriel window looking over the park. She had composure enough to get up and put her face close to an oval, gilt-framed glass which hung above the hearth. She had hardly turned away when the door opened. With lips parted and hands out she advanced, then fell back as a strange man put his chin and a pair of keen eyes round the lintel. He was a nondescript. She took an instant dislike to the weak face and reedy figure. He was dressed in brown tweed of an ugly herring-bone pattern; he had a thick new watch-chain. She didn’t know who he was, but she instantly hated—and resented—him.
He came a little farther into the room, looked at her thoughtfully, critically—as a lady’s-maid might at her lady’s new gown—possibly to be hers some day. Then he, too, grinned. The glance instantly fired her; she looked and almost spoke indignant remonstrance. But the strange man merely grinned again and slipped away. She was left alone.
Edred was a very long time. When at last she heard lagging feet, the ball in her throat—of frenzied delight, of trepidation and tumult—nearly choked her.
He was faultlessly dressed. He looked prosperous—a bit bored and languid—that was part of his mask—but happy and very much plumper. She fancied that his puffy cheeks detracted from his good looks. He hadn’t missed her. He had left her at Folly Corner—to die if she liked, to do worse—without caring.
She struggled up from the extravagantly stuffed divan of figured silk.
“Edred!”
“By Jove! Pam! You?”
She had nervously pulled her gloves off while she waited. His eyes fell to her hands at once. There wasn’t a ring on them.
“Whew! He hasn’t found out? The wedding isn’t off?”