"I'm sorry if I kept you waiting, Mon. I——"
Hendrie broke off in astonishment. Just for a moment his eyes surveyed the wonderful picture she made. And, in that moment, Monica realized that her efforts had not been in vain. His eyes were drinking in her beauty, and she understood that never, in their brief married life, had she appealed to him more.
"Why, Mon," he cried. Then in a sudden burst of admiration. "You—you look just splendid." And after a pause. "Splendid!"
Monica smiled up at him.
"You haven't kept me waiting. I—I was anxious to see you at once, so I—I dressed early."
Hendrie had drawn nearer, as though about to embrace her. But her halting fashion of explanation checked him. All unconsciously he leaned against the edge of a table instead. It was as though something had warned him to—wait.
"I'm glad I didn't keep you waiting," he said, and something of the warmth had gone out of his tone. "Something—important?"
The woman was seized with a mad longing to flee from the room. The ordeal she was about to go through was almost more than she could bear.
"Yes—I'm afraid it is," she said, in a low, unsteady voice, while she turned away toward the window.
"Afraid?"