Somehow, he realised that speech just then
was difficult. He called a taxi and handed her in. They drove
to Clarges Street in silence. He led the way up the stairs, gave
some quick orders to his servant whom he met coming down, ushered
her into his sitting-room and saw her ensconced in an easy-chair.
"Please take off that terrible veil," he begged.
"It is pinned on to my hat," she told him.
"Then off with both," he insisted. "You can't eat luncheon like
that. I'm not going to try and bully you. If you've booked your
passage to Timbuctoo and you really want to go--why, you must. I
only want the chance of letting you know that I am coming after
you."
She took off her hat and veil and threw them on to the sofa,
glancing sideways at a mirror let into the door of a cabinet.
"My hair is awful," she declared:
He laughed gaily, and turned around from the sideboard, where he
was busy mixing cocktails.
"Thank heavens for that touch of humanity!" he exclaimed. "A
woman who can bother about her hair when she takes her hat off,
is never past praying for. Please drink this."
She obeyed. He took the empty glass away from her. Then he came
over to the hearthrug by her side.
"Do you know that I kissed you last night?" he reminded her.
"I do," she answered.
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