‘What is the matter? Can’t I help? It’s so very absurd—’
‘What is absurd?’ he asked dully.
‘Why, standing like this outside my own bedroom door. Are you ill? I will send for Dr. Simon.’
‘Please, Sheila, do nothing of the kind. I am not ill. I merely want a little time to think in.’ There was again a brief pause, and then a slight rattling at the handle.
‘Arthur, I insist on knowing at once what’s wrong; this does not sound a bit like yourself. It is not even quite like your own voice.’
‘It is myself,’ he replied stubbornly, staring fixedly into the glass. You must give me a few moments, Sheila. Something has happened. My face. Come back in an hour.’
‘Don’t be absurd; it’s simply wicked to talk like that. How do I know what you are doing? As if I can leave you for an hour in uncertainty! Your face! If you don’t open at once I shall believe there’s something seriously wrong: I shall send Ada for assistance.’
‘If you do that, Sheila, it will be disastrous. I cannot answer for the con—. Go quietly downstairs. Say I am unwell; don’t wait dinner for me; come back in an hour; oh, half an hour!’
The answer broke out angrily. ‘You must be mad, beside yourself, to ask such a thing. I shall wait in the next room until you call.’
‘Wait where you please,’ Lawford replied, ‘but tell them downstairs.’