"Here—in my dressing-room, John. Why are you so late?"
He leant weakly against the wall.
"I was detained. What's the matter?"
"Why don't you come in?" she asked.
He straightened and opened the door. The light, shining upon his face, showed it still scarred by anger and indecision. The relief of finding his wife at home and safe was not, then, wholly curative.
He closed the door behind him and stared at her, lying in a reading-chair, a book open on her knees, her dark and lovely face upraised to him, expectant, questioning, a trifle startled.
"Where are all the servants?" he demanded.
She stirred. The youthful fluency of her body in the mauve dressing gown must have impressed itself upon the excited man by the door.
"I had to let myself in. I—Not a light. It frightened me."
"You've forgotten," she answered. "We talked it over a week or so ago, and I thought you had agreed. Ellen's wedding. Naturally they all wanted to go. I had an early dinner and packed them off. But I counted on you. I was growing afraid, all alone in the house. What kept you?"