“It’s good to know you feel that way. You see”—she held Dicky closer—“I can give you the viewpoint of the audience now.”
That night she told her husband of the play. They had dined at the Courtleigh Bishop place, some five miles distant, and during the drive home Nancy had been unusually quiet. She walked up the wide staircase, head bent, her long velvet cloak pulled close around her as if for protection against the country chill of April. But as he followed into her boudoir with its amber lights and drapes of cornflower blue she dropped into a chair, let the wrap slip from her shoulders and leaned forward, speaking rapidly.
“Tell me something of your doings to-day, Dick. You haven’t yet.”
[316]
] He recounted the day’s activities—certain complications that had arisen in his Western interests. Cunningham, in spite of wealth or perhaps because of it, was not a waster. She listened eagerly to every word.
“And, by-the-way,” he added, much as an afterthought; “I lunched with a former friend of yours, Lilla Grant. Met her as I was going into the Ritz. She was alone—so was I. So we joined forces.”
She leaned back with a deep sigh.
“I’m glad you told me that.”
His reply held a note of surprise.
“Why?”
“Because Mary Bishop made it a point to inform me to-night that she’d seen you there. ‘Dicky still has a penchant for the theatrical profession,’ she said, ‘I saw him lunching to-day with a stage beauty.’ Of course, it amused me but I just had a feeling that I’d like to hear about it from you.”