"Won't that be rather dull for the people at the other end of the line?" I ventured.
"Now, you go on with your writing," she said severely. So I went on.
Herbert closed the door softly behind him and went out, leaving Ermyntrude alone. She had let him go. He had gone. He had left her alone. Her—Ermyntrude—alone. It has been truly said that women are queer creatures. They do not like being left alone.
Chapter LVII.
Herbert picked up his hat and stick and passed out of the spacious hall into the street, closing the door softly behind him. It was his habit when angry to close doors softly behind him. He was frequently angry; men often are, and with reason.
"There's something I want to ask you," said Cecily.
"Ask away," I said brusquely.
"Not you," said Cecily, frowning at me and then smiling at the receiver.
And so Herbert found himself in the street. Where should he go? What should he do ... say ... think ... feel...? He was quite unable to decide. Somehow he couldn't bring his mind to bear on the subject. He could hardly recall the name of the lady with whom he had been conversing, let alone what all the trouble was about. He paused and lit a cigarette. Absolutely there was nothing else for it.
"How are you getting on?" I asked Cecily a little peevishly.