"I'm going to Paris the first train to-morrow." "Then I'd better come up now."
The voice was nonchalant as death — or she would have hung up the
receiver. "You can't come now; I'm undressed!" "Then when may I come?" It
was terrible, this antinony of persistence with a stifled yawn! Her soul failed
her. "When you will," she murmured. The receiver dropped from her hand;
but she caught one word - the word "taxi."
In the morning, she awoke, almost a corpse. He had come, and he had gone
— he had not spoken a single word, not even given a token that he would
come again. She told her maid to pack for Paris: but she could not go.
Instead, she fell ill. Hysteria became neurasthenia; yet she knew that a single
word would cure her.
But no word came. Incidentally she heard that Cyril Grey was playing golf at
Hoylake; she had a mad impulse to go to find him; another to kill herself.
But Lavinia King, perceiving after many days that something was wrong —
after many days, for her thoughts rarely strayed beyond the contemplation of
her own talents and amusements — carried her off to Paris. She needed her,
anyhow, to play hostess.
But three days after their arrival Lisa received a postcard. It bore nothing but
an address and a question-mark. No signature; she had never seen the
handwriting; but she knew. She snatched up her hat, and her furs, and ran
downstairs. Her car was at the door; in ten minutes she was knocking at the
door of Cyril's studio.
He opened.
His arms were ready to receive her; but she was on the floor, kissing his feet.
"My Chinese God! My Chinese God!" she cried. [19]
"May I be permitted," observed Cyril, earnestly, "to present my friend and
master, Mr. Simon Iff?"
Lisa looked up. She was in the presence of a man, very old, but very alert and
active. She scrambled to her feet in confusion.