He went away to change his clothes, and then stepped into Angela's room.
"I'm going to walk with Suzanne," he said dominantly, when he was ready.
"All right," said Angela, who was so tired she could have fainted. "Will you be back for dinner?"
"I don't know," he replied. "What difference does it make?"
"Only this: that the maid and cook need not stay unless you are coming. I want nothing."
"When will the nurse be here?"
"At seven."
"Well, you can prepare dinner, if you wish," he said. "I will try and be back by four."
He walked toward the studio where Suzanne was, and found her waiting, white-faced, slightly hollow-eyed, but strong and confident. Now, as so often before, he noticed that spirit of self-sufficiency and reliance about her young body which had impressed him so forcibly and delightfully in the past. She was a wonderful girl, this Suzanne, full of grit and ability, although raised under what might have been deemed enervating circumstances. Her statement, made under pressure the night before, that she must go to a hotel and not go home until she could straighten out her affairs, had impressed him greatly. Why had she thought of going out in the world to work for herself unless there were something really fine about her? She was heir to a fortune under her father's will, he had heard her mother say once. This morning her glance was so assured. He did not use the phone to call a car, but strolled out into the drive with her walking along the stone wall which commanded the river northward toward Grant's Tomb. It occurred to him that they might go to Claremont Inn for breakfast, and afterwards take a car somewhere—he did not know quite where. Suzanne might be recognized. So might he.
"What shall we do, sweet?" he asked, as the cool morning air brushed their faces. It was a glorious day.