“You sent word that you ‘begged to be excused’ when I called to see you,” Wallace reminded her bitterly.
“The words were of Oscar’s choosing, not mine,” she explained. “You came the night of the inquest, and by Dr. McLean’s orders I denied myself to all callers—”
“But you saw Ted Rodgers?”
“Well, why not?” Her color deepened, but her eyes did not fall before his angry gaze. “It is not your right to dictate to me about anything. And besides,” not giving him a chance to interrupt her, “you have had ample time to call since then.”
“I’ve been ill—oh, hang it!” as a hurrying pedestrian collided against him. “We can’t talk here. There’s no fun in being jostled about by idiots!”—casting a vindictive glance at the offender, who had just made the street car he had been running to catch.
Kitty eyed Wallace sharply. Never before had she known him so upset in speech and manner. As she observed the careworn lines in his face and the mute appeal in his deep-set eyes, her anger cooled.
“I will lunch with you, Leigh,” she said. “But why make such a point of it?”
What answer Wallace would have made remained unspoken, as a mutual acquaintance swooped down upon them and, utterly ignoring their lack of cordiality, insisted upon accompanying them to the Shoreham. Once inside the hotel restaurant, Wallace lost no time in securing a table in a secluded corner and an attentive waiter took his order for luncheon.
“There, that’s done,” and Wallace, with a sigh of satisfaction, laid down the menu card and contemplated Kitty with admiration but thinly veiled. Her mourning was extremely becoming to her blonde beauty. “Is this story true that I hear, Kitty, that your aunt has left you a fortune?”
Kitty considered him in silence. The question had been asked so often by friends and acquaintances that it had lost its novelty; coming from him it surprised her.