“I suppose it would shock you if I made a fight for––you!”
He took it as a jest and laughed at her perverse humour. But what she had meant she herself scarcely realised; and she turned away from the telephone, conscious of a vague excitement invading her and of a vaguer consternation, too. For behind the humorous audacity of her words, she seemed to realise there remained something hidden––something she was on the verge of discovering––something indefinable, menacing, grave enough to dismay her and drive from her lips the last traces of the smile which her audacious jest had left there.
The ladies from Chicago were to dine with her; her 268 maid had hooked her gown; orchids from Jim had just arrived, and she was still pinning them to her waist––still happily thrilled by this lovely symbol of their renewed accord, when the bell rang.
It was much too early to expect anybody: she fastened her orchids and started to descend the stairs for a last glance at the table, when, to her astonishment, she saw Angelo Puma in the hall in the act of depositing his card upon the salver extended by the maid.
He looked up and saw her before she could retreat: she made the best of it and continued on down, greeting him with inquiring amiability:
“Miss Dumont, a thousand excuses for this so bold intrusion,” he began, bowing extravagantly at every word. “Only the urgent importance of my errand could possibly atone for a presumption like there never has been in all–––”
“Please step into the drawing room, Mr. Puma, if you have something of importance to say.”
He followed her on tiptoe, flashing his magnificent eyes about the place, still wearing over his evening dress the seal overcoat with its gardenia, which was already making him famous on Broadway.
Palla seated herself, wondering a little at the perfumed splendour of her landlord. He sat on the extreme edge of an arm chair, his glossy hat on his knee.
“Miss Dumont,” he said, laying one white-gloved paw across his shirt-front, “you shall behold in me a desolate man!”