I walked into the drawing-room, which was lighted and looked very bright
and charming, with its many flowers and framed photographs, and the
delightful Louis Quinze furniture, which I had so enjoyed picking up
here and there at antique shops or at private sales.
I flung myself on the sofa, but I could not rest. In a moment I was up
again, moving about, looking at the clock, comparing it with my watch,
wondering what could have happened to make Ivor fail in keeping his
promise to be prompt on the hour of twelve.
Of course, a hundred harmless things might have kept him, but I thought
only of the worst, and was working myself up to a frenzy when at last I
heard the gate-bell. I had been in the house no more than twelve or
fourteen minutes, but it seemed an hour, and I gave a sob of relief as I
rushed out, down the garden path, to let my visitor in.
Fumbling a little at the lock, always a little difficult if one were in
a hurry, I asked myself what if, as Marianne had suggested, it were not
Ivor Dundas, but someone else--Raoul, perhaps--or the man who had been
in her mind: Godensky.
But it was Ivor.
"What news?" I questioned him, my voice sounding queer and far away in
my own ears.
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