“Yes.”
“Right. Good-bye, and again congratulations.” Anthony hung up the receiver.
He turned to Lucia. She lay limply in the chair. After the first wild surge of relief had come reaction.
The spare receiver had fallen from her hand. Her breast heaved as if she fought for breath.
Anthony poured whisky into a tumbler; added a little soda-water. He forced the glass into her hand.
“Drink that,” he said.
Obediently, like a child, she drank, looking up at him over the rim of the glass.
When she had finished, “Feeling better?” he asked.
Her eyes flashed gratitude. “Ever so much. Oh! you don’t know how—what a horrible, awful day I’ve had!”
“I can guess,” Anthony said.