O'Neill took his temper into custody. "Still," he urged, "if you have it in mind to compass any surprising effect, remember—it may be his death."
She laughed slowly. "What is a death?" she answered. And then, with a hissing vehemence: "He sent for me, and I am here. Should I wear a veil, then—Lola?"
He put further remonstrances by, with a feeling of sickness in the throat. Again realization surged upon him that he had no words with which to speak to people like this. They lived on another plane, and saw by other lights. He was like a child wandering on a field of battle.
He found a carriage, and got into it beside her, and sat in silence while they drove through the throng of the streets. He saw, through the window, the brisk tides of the pavement, the lights and the cafes; they seemed remote from him, inaccessible. Inside the carriage, he could hear the steady, full breathing of the woman at his side.
"You will at least allow me to go first," he said, as they drew up at last. He was prepared to carry this point if he had to lock her out of the house. But she made no demur.
"As you will," she murmured.
He found her a place to wait, an alcove on the stairs. As he guided her to it, a touch on the arm showed him she was trembling.
"I will be a very little while," he promised, and ran up the stairs.
It was Buscarlet who opened the door to him, with Truelove standing behind his shoulder.
"Welcome, welcome!" babbled Buscarlet. "Oh, but we have been eager for you! Tell me, will she—will she come?"