The mood lasted until they reached the flat. McTaggart believed her still to be under the spell of the music. He respected her silence and enjoyed his cigarette as they sat side by side in the speeding taxi.
She opened the door with her latch-key, and switched on the hall light, leading the way into the drawing-room, where before a bright fire a table was spread with a dainty supper laid for one.
"I'm all alone to-night—it will be a real picnic." She took off her opera cloak and threw it on the sofa. "My cook sleeps out—she's a married woman—and Mélanie has gone home for a short holiday."
She told the lie coolly, knowing that near at hand the maid, well coached, was waiting for her cue; an important witness if subsequent events should necessitate her reappearance.
"You aren't nervous?" McTaggart looked surprised—"I mean, of staying here alone all night."
"Oh, dear no." She shrugged her shoulders. "I could ring up the porter in case of need."
She studied her face a moment in the glass, fingering the tulle that covered her shoulders. "I think perhaps... Yes!—I'll get out of this and slip into a comfortable tea-gown. You don't mind waiting, do you, Pierrot? I shan't be long." She turned to the door, then came back again with a forced smile.
"I wonder—could you undo these hooks." She turned her back to him as she spoke. "I can manage all the rest ... but just those between the shoulders?"
Gallantly McTaggart stooped to the task.
As the tulle fell away, leaving her neck bare, a sudden temptation seized the man. He lowered his head and kissed the warm flesh, honey-tinted, and soft to his lips.