"I was up nearly at the Prince of Wales's," she said out of breath,
"when I saw you crossing the Circus. My--I ran!"
"What for?" he asked laconically.
"Why to talk to you, of course--what else? Where are you going?"
He looked at her coloured lips, at the tired eyes with their blackened
lashes, at the flush of rouge that adorned her cheeks. Involuntarily,
he remembered when she was charming, pretty--a time when she required
none of these things.
"Where are you going anyway?" she repeated. "You haven't been to see
me these months. Where are you going now?"
"I'm going back to my rooms."
A look of resigned disappointment passed like a shadow across her
face. The first realization in a woman of her failure to attract is
the beginning of every woman's tragedy.
"Never seen my rooms, have you?" he added.
"No; never expected to."
"Come in and see them now and have a talk."
"You don't mean that?" Eagerness dragged it out of her.
"Come along," he said; "they're just down here--in Regent Street."
She followed him silently--silently, but in that moment her spirits
had lifted. There was a wider swing in her walk. But he took no notice
of that; he was not observant.
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