“Oh yes,” she said, thinking that she had had tea hundreds of years ago, somewhere or other.
Mary paused, took off her gloves, and, finding matches, proceeded to light the fire.
Katharine checked her with an impatient movement, and said:
“Don’t light the fire for me. . . .I want to know Ralph Denham’s address.”
She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the envelope. She waited with an imperious expression.
“The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,” Mary said, speaking slowly and rather strangely.
“Oh, I remember now!” Katharine exclaimed, with irritation at her own stupidity. “I suppose it wouldn’t take twenty minutes to drive there?” She gathered up her purse and gloves and seemed about to go.
“But you won’t find him,” said Mary, pausing with a match in her hand. Katharine, who had already turned towards the door, stopped and looked at her.
“Why? Where is he?” she asked.
“He won’t have left his office.”
“But he has left the office,” she replied. “The only question is will he have reached home yet? He went to see me at Chelsea; I tried to meet him and missed him. He will have found no message to explain. So I must find him—as soon as possible.”
Mary took in the situation at her leisure.
“But why not telephone?” she said.
Katharine immediately dropped all that she was holding; her strained expression relaxed, and exclaiming, “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that!” she seized the telephone receiver and gave her number. Mary looked at her steadily, and then left the room. At length Katharine heard, through all the superimposed weight of London, the mysterious sound of feet in her own house mounting to the little room, where she could almost see
