Mrs. Wallace was engaged for the afternoon of the next day, but she had invited him to dine with her.
"They feed you abominably at my place," she said, "but I'll do my best. And we shall be able to talk."
Until then he would not live; and all sorts of wild, mad thoughts ran through his head.
"Is there a greater fool on earth than the virtuous prig?" he muttered, savagely.
He could not sleep, but tossed from side to side, thinking ever of the soft hands and the red lips that he so ardently wished to kiss. In the morning he sent to Half Moon Street a huge basket of flowers.
"It was good of you," said Mrs. Wallace, when he arrived, pointing to the roses scattered through the room. She wore three in her hair, trailing behind one ear in an exotic, charming fashion.
"It's only you who could think of wearing them like that."
"Do they make me look very barbaric?" She was flattered by the admiration in his eyes. "You certainly have improved since I saw you last."
"Now, shall we stay here or go somewhere?" she asked after dinner, when they were smoking cigarettes.
"Let us stay here."