“Can you get her?” he asked cautiously.
“She's due here at five-thirty.”
Peter slipped away. Neuerman had acted without consulting him. It seemed to him that he should be angry. But he was merely dazed.
He walked the streets, a solitary, rather elegant figure, conspicuously a New Yorker, swinging his stick savagely and occasionally muttering to himself. He roved out to the open country. Maple buds were sprouting. New grass was pushing upward into the soft air. The robins were singing. But there were neither buds nor robins in Peter's heart. He decided to be friendly with Grace, but reserved.
It was nearly six when he entered the barnlike office of the hotel, his eyes on the floor, full of himself. Then he saw her, registering at the desk.
He had stopped short. He could not very well turn and go out. She might see him.. And he was not afraid.
She did see him. He raised his hat, Their hands met—he extremely dignified, she smiling a very little.
“Well, Peter!”
“You're looking well, Grace.”
“Am I?”