Sheila accompanied him out into the hall. “When shall you see him,” she said, with her eyes cast down.
“This evening,” he answered.
“I should like you to tell him that I am well, and that he need not be anxious about me.”
“And that is all?”
“Yes, that is all.”
“Very well, Sheila. I wish you had given me a pleasanter message to carry, but when you think of doing that I shall be glad to take it.”
Ingram left and hastened in to his office. Sheila’s affairs were considerably interfering with his attendance there—there could be no question of that—but he had the reputation of being able to get through his work thoroughly, whatever might be the hours he devoted to it, so that he did not greatly fear being rebuked for his present irregularities. Perhaps if a grave official warning had been probable, even that would not have interfered with his determination to do what could be done for Sheila.
But this business of carrying a message to Lavender was the most serious he had yet undertaken. He had to make sundry and solemn resolves to put a bold face on the matter at the outset, and declare that wild horses would not tear from him any further information. He feared the piteous appeals that might be made to him; the representations that, merely for the sake of an imprudent promise, he was delaying a reconciliation between these two until that might be impossible; the reasons that would be urged on him for considering Sheila’s welfare as paramount to his own scruples. He went through the interview as he foresaw it, a dozen times over, and constructed replies to each argument and entreaty. Of course, it would be simple enough to meet all Lavender’s demands with a simple “No,” but there are circumstances in which the heroic method of solving difficulties becomes a trifle inhuman.
He had promised to dine with Lavender that evening at his club. When he went along to St. James’ Street at the appointed hour his host had not arrived. He walked for about ten minutes, and then Lavender appeared, haggard and worn out with fatigue. “I have heard nothing—I can hear nothing—I have been everywhere,” he said, leading the way at once into the dining-room. “I am sorry I have kept you waiting, Ingram.”
They sat down at a small side table: there were few men in the club at this late season, so that they could talk freely enough when the waiter had come and gone.