Miss Maynard could hear him stamping overhead as though he were doing his best to bring the ceiling down.
"Thank you; I will go to him."
She did go to him. But first she went to her own room, shutting the door carefully behind her. Going to the dressing-table she put her arms upon it and hid her face within her hands.
"Oh!" she said, "whatever shall I do?" Then she cried. "It's the most dreadful thing I ever heard of. Oh, how could he find it in his heart to treat me so?" She ceased crying and dried her eyes, "Never mind, it's not over yet. If he drives me to despair he shall know it was his doing."
Then she stood up, took off her hat and coat, washed her face and eyes, and entered the drawing-room in her best manner.
The Major was alone. He was perfectly aware that Miss Maynard had returned. He had seen her come up the street, he had heard her enter the house, but for reasons of his own he had not gone to meet her with that exuberant warmth with which, occasionally, it was his custom to greet her. He was in a towering passion. At least, he fully intended to be in a towering passion, but at the same time he was fully conscious that, under the circumstances, a towering passion was a very difficult thing to keep properly towering. And when Miss Maynard entered with the expression of her countenance so sweet and saintlike, he knew that there was trouble in the air. He looked at his watch.
"Five-and-twenty minutes to two. Five-and-twenty minutes to two. And we lunch at half-past one. Those servants are disgraceful!"
And he crossed the room to ring the bell.
"Please don't ring," said Miss Maynard, quite up to the manœuvre. "I wish to speak to you."
"Oh, oh! Then perhaps you'll remember it is luncheon-time, and when we're likely to have any regularity in this establishment, perhaps you'll let me know."