Mr Pilkington drew his chair an imperceptible inch nearer.
“How sympathetic you are!”
Jill perceived with chagrin that she had been mistaken after all. It was the love-light. The tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles sprayed it all over her like a couple of searchlights. Otis Pilkington was looking exactly like a sheep, and she knew from past experience that that was the infallible sign. When young men looked like that, it was time to go.
“I’m afraid I must be off,” she said. “Thank you so much for giving me tea. I shouldn’t be a bit afraid about the play. I’m sure it’s going to be splendid. Good-bye.”
“You aren’t going already?”
“I must. I’m very late as it is. I promised …”
Whatever fiction Jill might have invented to the detriment of her soul was interrupted by a ring at the bell. The steps of Mr Pilkington’s Japanese servant crossing the hall came faintly to the sitting-room.
“Mr Pilkington in?”
Otis Pilkington motioned pleadingly to Jill.
“Don’t go!” he urged. “It’s only a man I know. He has probably come to remind me that I am dining with him tonight. He won’t stay a minute. Please don’t go.”