Dulcie’s hand trembled on the receiver as she called up Grogan’s; Barres bent over the transmitter:
“Soane, Dulcie is going to take dinner in my studio with me. You’ll have to come back on duty, when you’ve eaten.” He hung up, looked at Dulcie and laughed.
“I wanted company as much as you did,” he confessed. “Now, go and put on your prettiest frock, and we’ll be very grand and magnificent. And afterward we’ll talk and look at books and pretty things—and maybe we’ll turn on the Victrola and I’ll teach you to dance—” He had already begun to ascend the stairs:
“In half an hour, Dulcie!” he called back; “—and you may bring the Prophet if you like.... Shall I ask Mr. Westmore to join us?”
“I’d rather be all alone with you,” she said shyly.
He laughed and ran on up the stairs.
In half an hour the electric bell rang very timidly. Aristocrates, having been instructed and rehearsed, and, loftily condescending to his rôle in a kindly comedy to be played seriously, announced: “Miss Soane!” in his most courtly manner.
Barres threw aside the evening paper and came forward, taking both hands of the white and slightly frightened child.
“Aristocrates ought to have announced the Prophet, too,” he said gaily, breaking the ice and swinging Dulcie around to face the open door again.