Athalie Part 48

"Is he stopping at the Great Eastern?"

"Yes. I believe he's going back on Sat.u.r.day."

She looked up sharply: "Back? Where?"

"Oh, not to Peru. Only to England," said Dane, forcing a laugh.

After a moment she said: "And he wouldn't come.... It is only three blocks, isn't it?"

"It wasn't the distance, of course--"

"No; I remember. He thought I might not have cared to see him."

"That was it."

Another silence; then in a lower voice which sounded a little hard: "His wife is living in England, I suppose."

"She is living--I don't know where."

"Have they--children?"

"I believe not."

She remained silent for a while, then, coolly enough:

"I suppose he is sailing on Sat.u.r.day to see his wife."

"I think not," said Dane, gravely.

"You say he is sailing for England."

"Yes, but I imagine it's because he has nowhere else to go."

"Why doesn't he stay here?"

"I don't know."

"He is American. His friends live here. Why doesn't he remain here?"

Dane shook his head: "He's a restless man, Miss Greensleeve. That kind of man can't stay anywhere. He's got to go on--somewhere."

"I see."

There came a pause; then they talked of other things for a while until other people began to drop in, Arthur Ensart, Anne Randolph, and young Welter--Helter Skelter Welter, always, metaphorically speaking, redolent of saddle leather and reeking of sport. His theme happened to be his own wonderful trap record, that evening; and the fat, good-humoured, ardent young man prattled on about "unknown angles,"

and "incomers," until Dane, who had been hunting jaguars and cannibals along the unknown Andes, concealed his yawns with difficulty.

Ensart insisted on turning on the lights and starting the machine; and presently Anne Randolph and Peggy were dancing the Miraflores with Cecil and Ensart.

Welter had cornered Hargrave and Dane and was telling them all about it, and Athalie went slowly through the pa.s.sage-way and into her own bedroom, where she stood quite motionless for a while, looking at the floor. Hafiz, dozing on the bed, awoke, gazed at his mistress gravely, yawned, and went to sleep again.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "His theme happened to be his own wonderful trap record, that evening."]

Presently she dropped onto a chair by her little ivory-tinted Louis XVI desk. There was a telephone there and a directory.

When she had decided to open the latter, and had found the number she wanted, she unhooked the receiver and called for it.

After a few minutes somebody said that he was not in his room, but that he was being paged.

She waited, dully attentive to the far noises which sounded over the wire; then came a voice:

"Yes; who is it?"

She said: "I wished to speak to Mr. Bailey--Mr. Clive Bailey."

"I am Mr. Bailey."

For a moment the fact that she had not recognised his voice seemed to strike her speechless. And it was only when he spoke again, inquiringly, that she said in a low voice: "Clive!"

"Yes.... Is--is it _you_!"

"Yes."

And in the next heavily pulsating moment her breath came back with her self-control:

"Why didn't you come, Clive?"

"I didn't imagine you wanted me."

"I asked Captain Dane to invite you."

"Did you know whom you were inviting?"

"No.... But I do now. Will you come?"

"Yes. When?"

"When you like. Come now if you like--unless you were engaged--"

"No--"

"What were you doing when I called you?"

"Nothing.... Walking about the lobby."

"Did you find it interesting?"

She heard him laugh--such a curious, strange, shaken laugh.