She spent hours in putting herself into all imaginable disasters. The breakfast Pennock commanded her to eat she only dabbed at.
At half past three the telephone rang. The office-boy at Reben’s hailed her across the wire:
“That choo, M’Skemble? This is Choey. Say, M’Skemble, Mis’ Treben wantsa speak choo. Hola wire a min’t, please.”
Sheila reached out and hooked a chair with her foot and brought it up to catch her when the blow fell. Reben’s voice was full of restrained cheerfulness:
“That you, Sheila? Are you ill?”
“Why, no! Why?”
“You had an appointment here at three. We’re still waiting.”
“But you don’t want to see—me, do you?”
“And why not?”
“But last night you said—”