"Today is Thursday," he said, with renewed energy. "Next Wednesday will be the crisis. I must find out what Majendie is going to do. Snelling's the man to know—or Garraboy."
The car stopped. He sprang out and, without giving his name, entered the elevator. At the apartment a Japanese servant took his things and ushered him into the low-lit greens of the studio, which ran the height of the two floors that formed the duplex apartment.
Mrs. Rita Kildair was stretched on a low Récamier sofa, watching him with amused eyes as he entered with that atmosphere of strife and fury that seemed always to play about him. She waited until he had come to her side before she raised her hand to his, in a gesture that had no animation, saying:
"How do you do?"
Something in the tranquil, amused self-possession of her pose made him stupidly repeat the question. Then, forgetting his resolve to show no impatience, he said impetuously:
"Why did you keep me waiting?"
"Because I did not wish to see your highness then."
"Not dressed?"
"No, I was simply amusing myself with a very nice boy."
"Who?"