“To-night . . . but it is afternoon!”
He still had her hand in his. She felt, or fancied she felt, a pulse beating in his hand. It gave her a sense of terrible intimacy with him, as if she were close to the very sources of his being. And yet she knew nothing about him.
“It gets dark so early now,” he said.
Dark! As he said it she thought, “That’s his word! That’s his word!” Everyone has his word, and dark was Arabian’s.
“Good-bye!” she said.
“I will take you down.”
Quietly and very naturally, he let her hand go. And at once she had a sensation of being out in the cold.
They went down together in the lift. Just as they left it, and were in the hall, a woman whom Miss Van Tuyn knew slightly, a Mrs. Birchington, an intimate of the Ackroyde and Lady Wrackley set, met them coming from the entrance.
“Oh, Miss Van Tuyn!” she said, stopping.
She held out her hand, looking from Miss Van Tuyn to Arabian.