“Oh, thank you,” Rose murmured. “Léon, Léon, are you there?”
“But it is Rose?” His voice answered a little as if he was surprised that it was Rose.
“Yes,” she said quickly, “I want to see you. Can you come at once?”
“Something has happened?” he asked anxiously. “Something has gone wrong?”
Rose reassured him. “Oh, no--nothing, but I felt suddenly as if I must see you.”
There was a moment’s pause, a buzzing sound came across the wires, and then Rose heard a strange voice--it sounded like a woman’s saying very slowly, “Mais--c’est la dernière nuit?” And then Léon’s again, “I am very busy to-night, Rose--this that you want to see me about, is it important?”
She was surprised at his hesitation, and surprised at her own insistence. It seemed to her suddenly very important that she should insist. “Please, please come,” she said urgently. There was another pause, then Léon said again, “Is it a command?”
A moment earlier she would not have said that it was a command, but her wish to see him had been mysteriously sharpened into a strange imperative instinct.
“Isn’t my wish a command?” she asked, trying to laugh. But Léon did not echo her laughter. “Very well, then,” he said, “in ten minutes.”
The big red salon was empty. For the first time Rose noticed the yellow lamp, the blue velvet tablecloth, the enormous imperishable roses in bulging angular vases under the great gilt mirror.