It was a fine evening; ladies were abroad or preparing to fulfil engagements wisely made on such a day as this had been. And the more numbers he called up the lonelier the young man began to feel.
Thessalie had not given him either her address or telephone number. It would have been charming to have her dine with him. He was now thoroughly inclined for company. He glanced at the empty dining-room with aversion.
“All right; never mind,” he said, dismissing Aristocrates, who receded as lithely as though leading a cake-walk.
“The devil,” muttered the young fellow. “I’m not going to dine here alone. I’ve had too happy a day of it.”
He got up restlessly and began to pace the studio. He knew he could get some man, but he didn’t want one. However, it began to look like that or a solitary dinner.
So after a few more moments’ scowling cogitation he went out and down the stairs, with the vague idea of inviting some brother painter—any one of the regular irregulars who inhabited Dragon Court.
Dulcie sat behind the little desk near the door, head bowed, her thin hands clasped over the closed ledger, and in her pallid face the expressionless dullness of a child forgotten.
“Hello, Sweetness!” he said cheerfully.
She looked up; a slight colour tinted her cheeks, and she smiled.