Marian heard the door shut behind him, and knew that it closed on her married life.
This same day Maddison worked until the light failed, early in the afternoon, and then stood before the fire in the darkening studio, undetermined.
Marian’s intrusion into his life had rendered him dissatisfied, made him at one moment feverishly anxious for activity, at another full of longing for solitude and silence. As it chanced, the first was his present mood, but he had no engagement and did not know where to go or what to do.
It was only four o’clock. He could pay a visit to one or other of the many friends who would meet him with quick welcome, but this prosaic prospect did not allure him, nor did an afternoon of gossip or argument at the club.
It occurred to him to go and see Marian, but he resisted the insistent temptation. She had thrown him over without a word, either not wanting to see him, or wishing him to woo her; both pride and wisdom told him that he had best leave the next move to her. But if she made no move? Were there not other women equally desirable! Another Marian?
The ringing of the telephone bell broke in on his thoughts. The call was from Mortimer.
“Hullo! Is that you, George?”
“Yes.”
“I’m laid up with a sprained ankle. Can you come round for a chat? I’ve no woman for you—only tea.”