Anthony looked after. “If you were your sister, my dear,” said he to himself, “escape would’ve been more difficult.”
The door opened again. This time it is Lucia, composed now and more mistress of herself than for days past. With relief, her sense of humour had returned in full strength; there is nothing more steadying than one’s sense of humour.
Anthony was still on his feet. She looked first at him and then at the damp pages of the Telegraph covering the chair. She began to laugh. He was well content; the most seductive, the most pleasant sound within his experience.
He stood smiling at her. The laughter grew. Then, with an effort, she controlled it.
“I’m sorry. Only I couldn’t help it. Really I couldn’t!” Her tone was contrite.
“And why should you?” Anthony asked. “But I hope you appreciate my tender care of your cushions.”
She seated herself, waving him back to his chair. “Oh, I do! I think it was wonderful of you to—to think about my furniture at a time like this. But then you’re by way of being rather a wonderful person, aren’t you?”
“You deceive yourself if you mean that,” said Anthony. “A matter of common sense plus imagination; that’s all. The mixture’s rare, I admit, but there’s no food for wonder in it.” He hardly heard his own words. He found clear thought an effort. He wanted only to be left in peace to look at her and look and look again. He found himself glad, somehow, that to-night she was not in an evening gown. The simplicity of her clothes, perfect though they were, seemed to make her, paradoxically, less remote.
She smiled at him. “Now, please, you must tell me all about everything.”
Anthony groaned.