It was strange how solemn and tremulous they were all three over so small a matter. A razor edge is a small thing, but a most uncomfortable place to balance.
Vickery broke out with a revulsion to hope. “Great!” he exclaimed. “When?”
“This afternoon would please me best,” said Bret, rather sickly, now that the business had gone so far. “If Mr. Eldon—”
“I am free till seven,” said Eldon.
“I’ll go back and ask Mrs. Winfield, if she hasn’t gone out,” said Bret, rising.
“I’ll go fasten the manuscript together,” said Vickery, rising.
“I’ll go along and glance over the new scenes,” said Eldon, rising.
“Telephone me at my place,” said Vickery, “and let me know one way or the other as soon as you can. The suspense is killing.”
They walked out on the steps of the club, and Bret hailed a passing taxicab. As he turned round he saw Eldon lifting Vickery into a car that was evidently his own, for he took the wheel.
The nearer he got to the hotel the more Bret repented of his rash venture, the uglier it looked from various angles. He hoped that Sheila would be at the dressmaker’s, contenting herself with rhapsodies in silk.