"Good-bye!" she said. He caught her at the door, and she turned and looked up gravely.
"Don't spoil it," she whispered, disengaging herself.
So he released her, and she stretched out her hand, smiled at him, and stepped out. The music-phone continued to play gaily.
A girl who was coming upstairs saw her as she left Cleland's studio; and, as the pretty visitor sped lightly past her, the girl who was mounting turned and watched her. Then she resumed her ascent, came slowly to Cleland's open door, stood there resting a moment as though out of breath.
Cleland, replacing the rugs, glanced up and caught sight of Stephanie; and the quick blood burnt his face.
She came in as though still a trifle weary from the ascent. Neither spoke. She glanced down at the two empty wine glasses on his desk, saw the decanter, the biscuits and cigarettes. The music-phone was expiring raucously.
"Who is that girl?" she asked in an even, colourless voice.
"A girl I met."
"Do you mind telling me her name?"
"I—don't know it," he said, getting redder.