“Goin’ to lunch now, Mi’ Swebling?”
And all that Miss Webling said was:
“Not just yet––thank you.”
Both were almost swooning with the tremendous significance of the moment.
Miss Webling felt that she was defying all the powers of espionage and convention when she made so brave as to linger while Miss Gabus left the room in short twitches, with the painful reluctance of one who pulls off an adhesive plaster by degrees. When at last she was really off, Miss Webling went to Davidge’s door, feeling as wicked as the maid in Ophelia’s song, though she said no more than:
“Well, did you have a successful journey?”
Davidge whirled in his chair.
“Bully! Sit down, won’t you?”
He thought that no goddess had ever done so divine a thing so ambrosially as she when she smiled and shook her incredibly exquisite head. He rose to his feet in awe of her. His restless hands, afraid to lay hold of their quarry, automatically extracted his watch from his pocket and held it beneath his eyes. He stared at it without recognizing the hour, and stammered:
“Will you lunch with me?”