At any rate she made another
appointment and kept it.
She came one afternoon to his house in Half Moon Street. She had never
been there before. She had never meant to go there. To do so was an
imprudence. That fact was another of the pleasures with a bitter savour.
Robin met her at the head of the stairs, with an air of still excitement
not common in his look and bearing. He followed her into the blue room
where Sir Donald had talked with Carey. The "/Danseuse de Tunisie/" still
presided over it, holding her little marble fan. The open fireplace was
filled with roses. The tea-table was already set by the great square
couch. Robin shut the door and took out a matchbox.
"I am going to make tea," he said.
"Bachelor fashion?"
She sat down on the couch and looked round quickly, taking in all the
details of the room. He saw her eyes rest on the woman with the fan, but
she said nothing about it. He lit a silver spirit lamp and then sat down
beside her.
"At last!" he said.
Lady Holme leaned back in her corner. She was dressed in black, with a
small, rather impertinent black toque, in which one pale blue wing of a
bird stood up. Her face looked gay and soft, and Robin, who had cunning,
recognised that quality of his in her.
"I oughtn't to be here."
"Absurd. Why not?"
"Fritz has a jealous temperament."
She spoke with a simple naturalness that moved the diplomat within him to
a strong admiration.
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