She was at the window, looking
out, when he straightened himself and gingerly brushed the wood
dust from his hands. Instead of joining her, he remained with his
back to the fire, his feet spread apart, his hands in his coat
pockets, comforting himself with the thought that she was wondering
why he had not followed her. It was, he rejoiced, a very clever
bit of strategy on his part. He waited for her to turn away from
the window and say, with well-assumed perplexity: "I was sure I
heard a car, Mr. Thane."
And that is exactly what she did say after a short interval, adding:
"It must have been the wind in the chimney."
"Very likely," he agreed.
She remained at the window. He held his position before the fire.
"If I were just a plain damned fool," he was saying to himself,
"I'd rush over there and spoil everything. It's too soon,--too
soon. She's not ready yet,--not ready."
Alix, looking out across the porch into the grey drizzle that drenched
the lawn, thrust her hand into her skirt pocket and, clutching the
bit of paper in her fingers, crumpled it into a small ball. Her
eyes were serene, however, as she turned away and walked back to
the fireplace.
"I don't believe they are coming, after all. I think they might
have telephoned," she said, glancing up at the old French ormula
clock on the mantelpiece. "Half-past four. We will wait a few
minutes longer and then have tea.
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