“You dear child,” he said, “I am your friend.”
Halfway up the western staircase he called back:
“Ring me up, Dulcie, when the last mail comes!”
“I will,” she nodded, almost blindly.
Out of her lovely, abashed eyes she watched him mount the stairs, her cheeks a riot of surging colour. It was some few minutes after he was gone that she recollected herself, turned, and, slowly traversing the east corridor, entered her bedroom.
Standing there in darkness, vaguely silvered by reflected moonlight, she heard through her door ajar the guests of the evening descending the western staircase; heard their gay adieux exchanged, distinguished Esmé’s impudent drawl, Westmore’s lively accents, Mandel’s voice, the easy laughter of Damaris, the smooth, affected tones of Mrs. Helmund.
But Dulcie listened in vain for the voice which had haunted her ears since she had left the studio—the lovely voice of Thessalie Dunois.
If this radiant young creature also had departed with the other guests, she had gone away in silence.... Had she departed? Or was she still lingering upstairs in the studio for a little chat with the most wonderful man in the world?... A very, very beautiful girl.... And the most wonderful man in the world. Why should they not linger for a little chat together after the others had departed?
Dulcie sighed lightly, pensively, as one whose happiness lies in the happiness of others. To be a witness seemed enough for her.