Part 72 (1/2)
”Do I understand myself?” They got into the hansom. ”Where shall we go?”
she repeated.
”Places all close at twelve on Sat.u.r.day night.”
”Ah, do they? Your hotel also?”
”No, of course one may eat at one's own hotel. If you don't mind going there--”
”If _you_ don't mind, rather.”
”I? Who is my censor?”
”Ah, the word admits I'm discreditable. Never mind, Bob. See how Christian I am.”
”No, no, I've felt it was all my doing. Indirectly I drove you to it--oh, how you have weighed on me!”
”Really, I'd quite forgotten you.”
He winced and gasped. ”Hotel Belgravia,” he called up through the trap-door.
”Very strange you should find me,” she said, as they glided through the flas.h.i.+ng London night.
”Not in the least. I knew you blindfold, so to speak. You forget how I used to stand outside the drawing-room, listening to your singing.”
”Eavesdropper!” she murmured. But he struck a tender chord--all the tender chords of her twilight playing that now rose up softly and floated around her.
”Eavesdropper if you like, who heard nothing that was not beautiful. And so I hadn't to _look_ for you. As a matter of fact, I wasn't looking but consulting my programme to know who number eleven was, when you began to sing.”
”If you _had_ looked you wouldn't have recognised me,” she said, smiling.
”Probably not. The stage get-up would have blurred my memories.”
She began to like him again: the oddness of it all was appealing.
”Nevertheless,” she said, ”it is strange you should just find me to-night, for I--”
”No, it isn't,” he interrupted eagerly. ”I've been every night this week.”
”Ah, eavesdropping again,” she said, touched.
”I wanted to be absolutely sure--and then I couldn't pluck up courage to write to you.”
”But you did to-night?”
”You looked so tired--I felt I wanted to protect you.”
A sob came into her throat, but she managed to say coldly, ”Was I very bad?”