She took it with her own hands, locked the door, drank it without either sugar, cream, or even lemon, and then with steady hand began to dress herself.
She had never been so careful in the arrangement of her hair, never so particular in the selection of her costume, never so dissatisfied with herself when the operation was completed.
It was a street-gown she had donned, but not the tailor-made which she ordinarily wore on such occasions. It was a little French thing in tan and cerise, with a tiny violet bonnet that sat jauntily upon her well-poised head, and to one less exacting than herself had never appeared to better advantage. She was really more than beautiful, more than fascinating as she turned from the mirror and looked at the clock.
"A quarter to eight," she muttered. "I shall be waiting for you when you arrive, my dear Leith, instead of the note you expect."
She drew on her gloves, and then alone and unattended left the house.
She had not ordered her carriage, but when she reached the corner called one and gave the address to the coachman. She dismissed him at the door of Leith's apartment. The hall-boy looked at her curiously when she requested to be directed to Leith's apartments, but showed her there without a word, and Leith's valet admitted her to his presence.
"Mr. Pierrepont is at home," he answered in reply to her question. "He came in not five minutes ago."
Leith turned and came swiftly toward her when he saw who it was that had entered, taking both her hands in his and pressing them softly, as some of the color brought by the cutting March wind receded from his cheeks.
"What is it?" he asked swiftly. "Something must have happened to bring you. Carlita! How is she?"
A little curl of scorn flashed over Jessica's lips. Carlita! Always Carlita! She was risking her reputation in coming to him, yet his first thought was of Carlita!