At ten minutes past ten the great red Mercedes drew up outside the block of flats where Spencer Hastings lived. Anthony had broken his own record of that afternoon for the Kensington-Marling journey.
Stiffly, he clambered to the pavement, noted with curiosity that his hands were shaking, and ran up the steps. As he went he wondered would he see Her. He arrived at the door of No. 15 more out of breath than the climb should have made him.
Wonderfully, it was She who opened it, and at her smile the shortness of his breath was foolishly increased. For the smile was one, it seemed, of open delight at seeing him.
Hastings, she told him, was out, being at his office. His housekeeper, too, was out, being on holiday. But wasn’t Mr. Hastings a dear? Wasn’t Mr. Hastings’s betrothed a charming betrothed? The invalid was ever so much better; temperature down; sleeping; in fact, almost all right. And she hadn’t forgotten how everything, everything was due to the sagacity, kindliness, and general wonderfulness of Mr. Gethryn!
They were by this time in the little drawing-room; and as yet Anthony had done nothing save stare with all his eyes. She finished speaking, and he realized that he must say something. But what? He wanted to shout to Heaven that he hadn’t seen her for hours longer than years. He wanted to catch her hands—those long, slim hands—and cover them with kisses. He wanted to tell her that she was most glorious of women and he the vainglorious fool who dared to love her. He wanted—oh, what did he not want?
He said: “Er—good evening. Hastings out?”
She opened her eyes at him. “But—but, Mr. Gethryn, I’ve just told you that Mr. Hastings is at his office!”
“Of course. Ah, yes,” said Anthony.
“Did you want to see him?”
Anthony recovered himself; remembered that he had work to do, and that by attending to it he could save himself from behaving foolishly.