He was striding up and down her drawing-room, hands thrust deep into his pockets, head bent. But when one considers that her drawing-room consisted of three thrown into one, it was not surprising that at first she was not conscious of another’s presence. She came in, switched on the sidelights, dropped her furs and sank on the davenport, hand hovering toward the table back of her, when from the other end of the room, her name was spoken.
She sat up, startled, and saw Bob coming into the range of bluish light from a Chinese temple lamp at the side of the piano. Jane Goring looked her amazement. He drew nearer, stopped abruptly and faced her.
“My apologies,” he said with a slight, rather twisted smile, “for calling so late.”
She dropped back, the look of amazement still lighting her long sleepy eyes. “You did rather—startle me.”
For a moment neither spoke. Then he indicated the other corner of the deep-cushioned couch, “May I sit down?”
“Certainly.” It was accompanied by a slight shrug.
His hand dove into his vest pocket and brought out a silver cigarette case. He clicked it open, held it out to her. She may or may not have noticed that his movements were tense and jerky, that the case was held not [72] ]quite steadily. She gave a faint gesture of dissent, reaching once more to the table at her back, and opened a gold lacquer box.
“I have a new special brand—imported for me from Egypt.”
He took one of his own, pocketing the case, and she waited for some explanation of his visit.
“You’re looking well,” he began after a moment without looking at her.