"My words have carried good weight," she thinks. "Eleanor has shunted those objectionable bumpkins after all."
When they were gone Eleanor puts on her hat and cloak, and sallies forth in the chill wintry air.
She enters the telegraph office, and addresses a form to Carol Quinton:
"Don't go to G.'s party this afternoon. Come to Lyndhurst instead.—E."
Then she walks back up the hill, a strange thrill of exhilaration rushing over her.
"Good-looking men at her parties," she says to herself. "Carol has promised to come early, has he? We shall see."
The house seems dull and depressing without the old people or Rover. Philip is sure to stay late in the City, having spent most of the morning at home, and since she has no engagement. Thus Eleanor eases her conscience and waits expectantly for Carol.
Her drawing-room with its bright log fire looks cosy in the extreme as Mr. Quinton enters it that afternoon.
Eleanor is curled up on the sofa, a little bundle of sad silk drapery. Her eyes are wistful, her tea-gown is black. The dim light reveals not the slight soupçon of powder paling her features. She barely rises to greet him, only moving to a sitting posture, her feet still tucked under her, holding out a trembling hand. As the door closes he grasps the pink fingers and presses them to his lips.