His stock of conversation being exhausted he sat glancing uncomfortably round the littered room, painfully conscious that Mrs. Wheeler was regarding him with a glance that was at once hostile and impatient. While he was wondering whether Miss Tyrell had gone upstairs for a permanency, he heard her step on the stairs, and directly afterwards she appeared at the door with her hat and jacket on.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Wheeler,” she said, gravely.
“Good-bye,” said Mrs. Wheeler, in the same way that a free-speaking woman would have said “Good-riddance.”
The girl’s eyes rested for a moment on Fraser. Then she bade him good-bye, and, opening the door, passed into the street.
Fraser looked at Mrs. Wheeler in perplexity, then, jumping up suddenly as Poppy passed the window, he crossed to the door.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Wheeler,” he shouted, and, vaguely conscious that something was wrong somewhere, dashed off in pursuit.
Poppy Tyrell, her face pale and her eyes burning, quickened her pace as she heard hurrying footsteps behind her.
“I just wanted a few words with you, Miss Tyrell,” said Fraser, somewhat breathlessly.
“I—I am going on business,” said Poppy, in a quiet voice.
“I didn’t understand Mrs. Wheeler just now,” said Fraser. “I hope you didn’t mind my calling?”