He visualised her. He was slightly repelled by the ugly little face, with its high cheekbones and the crude colour. There was a coarseness in her skin which gave him goose-flesh. He knew that his telegram must be followed by some action on his part, but at all events it postponed it.
Next day he wired again.
Regret, unable to come. Will write.
Mildred had suggested coming at four in the afternoon, and he would not tell her that the hour was inconvenient. After all she came first. He waited for her impatiently. He watched for her at the window and opened the front-door himself.
“Well? Did you see Nixon?”
“Yes,” she answered. “He said it wasn’t any good. Nothing’s to be done. I must just grin and bear it.”
“But that’s impossible,” cried Philip.
She sat down wearily.
“Did he give any reasons?” he asked.
She gave him a crumpled letter.