To-night it looked like a strange room.
He told himself that it was absurd to feel so nervous. He and Cicely understood each other well enough. She cared for him. She had said so, more than once.
Of course, the little matter of facing Madame Watt... though, after all, what could she do?
He tried to control the tingling of his nerves.
'I must relax,' he thought.
With this object he moved over to the heavily upholstered sofa and settled himself on it; stretched out his legs; thrust his hands into his pockets.
But there was an extraordinary pressure in his temples; a pounding.
He snatched a hand from one pocket and felt hurriedly in another to see if the precious little box was there; the box with the magical name embossed on the cover, 'Weldings.'
He reflected, exultantly, 'I never bought anything there before.'
Then: 'She's a long time. They must be at the table still.' He sat up; listened. But the dining-room in the Dexter Smith place was far back behind the 'back parlour.' The walls were thick. There were heavy hangings and vast areas of soft carpet. You couldn't hear. 'Gee!' his thoughts raced on, 'think of owning all this! Wonder how people ever get so much money. Wonder how it would seem.'