Athalie

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.

She said: "I shall be very glad to see you, Clive. There are some of

your friends here, too, who will be glad to see you."

"Then I'll wait until--"

"No; I had rather meet you for the first time when others are here--if

you don't mind. Do you?"

"No," he said, coolly; "I'll come."

"Now?"

"Yes, immediately."

Her heart was going at a terrific pace when she hung up the receiver.

She went to her mirror, turned on the side-lights, and looked at

herself. From the front room came the sound of the dance music, a

ripple or two of laughter. Welter's eager voice singing still of arms

and the man.

Long she stood there, motionless, studying herself, so that, when the

moment came that was coming now so swiftly upon her, she might know

what she appeared like in his eyes.

All, so far, was sheer, fresh youth with her; her eyes had not lost

their dewy beauty; the splendour of her hair remained unchanged. There

were no lines, nothing lost, nothing hardened in contour. Clear and

smooth her snowy chin; perfect, so far, the lovely throat: nothing of

blemish was visible, no souvenirs of grief, of pain.

And, as she looked, and all the time she was looking, she felt,

subtly, that the ordered routine of her thoughts was changing; that a

transformation was beginning somewhere deep within her--a new

character emerging--a personality unfamiliar, disturbing, as though

not entirely to be depended on.