"Afraid not."
"Oh, all right. Thought you might be able to. Just turned in to see."
He went out abruptly with the same fierce white face, ignoring Mr. Oscar and leaving that Paris atmosphere disturbed as by a rush of north-east wind. Wolffe glanced quizzically at the door.
"What a draughty fellow! Wanted to blow me out into the street."
Molly was looking at herself in a long mirror, not because she was interested in her reflection, but because she had realized the hidden violence of Kit's coming and going. Also, Wolffe's flat and watchful face was an embarrassment, like a full moon shining suddenly upon unsuspected emotions. She had not wanted these two men to meet. Each of them symbolized a part of her incompatible impulses and cynicisms. With little body movements she appraised the hang of the dress.
"A little too—rigid."
"Not enough flow for you. That young man ought to wear cast-iron trousers."
"Oh, he has his virtues."
"Not very flexible—I think. Reinforced concrete."
"No, not rubber."
She looked into the mirror with hard eyes. She was thinking that in half an hour she would be walking to her club, and that if she went through the park—and alone. Yes, probably. One of those Norse onslaughts. She might fake Oscar with her and interpose him fie a big mite pillow. But—then—did she want him interposed? So flabby and flexible and so sophisticated! A man who understood everything, and condoned everything. No passionate rage. All very well as a judge of frocks and as a playfully cynical sleeping-partner. But on the North Sea, with ice about, and a wind blowing, and a man on the prow of a ship omer a live sword in fie eyes.
No; she would go alone.
And so she went.
He was waiting for her inside the Grosvenor Gate, on the other side of the road, sitting on a green chair, leaning forward with a stick fomecen his knees. Yes, like a man with his hands on the pommel of a sword. He came across
