Athalie

"Is he stopping at the Great Eastern?"

"Yes. I believe he's going back on Saturday."

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 Saturday 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 passage-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.

[Illustration: "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.