'The young man makes an excellent impression.'
'The young man,' remarked Madame, 'is all right.'
Half an hour later the noise of the front door opening, and a voice, caused the two young people to start up out of a breathless absorption in the story called _A Kerbstone Barmecide_, which Henry was reading from long strips of galley proof. He had already finished _The Cauliflowers of the Caliph_.
The one who was not equal to the situation was Elbow. He stood in the doorway, staring.
Cicely was only a moment late with her smile.
Henry, with an open sigh of regret, nodded at his old acquaintance and folded up the long strips of galley proof.
Elbow came into the room now, and took Cicely's hand. But his small talk had gone with his wits. He barely returned Henry's nod. Cicely, nervously active, suggested a chair, asked if there was going to be a Country Club dance this week, thanked him for the beautiful roses.
Then silence fell upon them; an awkward silence, that seemed to announce when it set in its intention of making itself increasingly awkward and very, very long. It was confirmed as a hopeless silence by the sudden little catchings of breath, the slight leaning forward, followed by nothing at all--first on the part of Cicely, then of Elbow.
Once he raised his eyes. They met squarely the eyes of Elbow. For a long moment each held the gaze. It was war.
'I know that you sing, Mr Calverly. Please do sing something.'
There, now, was an idea! It appealed warmly to Henry. He went straight to the piano, twisted up the stool, struck his three chords in turn, and plunged into that old song of Samuel's Lover's that has quaint charm when delivered with spirit and humour, _Kitty of Coleraine_.
After which he sang, _Rory O'More_. He had spirit and humour aplenty to-night.
The Senator came quietly in, bowed to Elbow, and asked for _The Low-Back Car_.
'Why did you tell me you hadn't any stories you could bring?' Cicely asked, a touch of indignation in her voice.
'Ten stories, you said. It seems--I can't----'
'But it's true. Three days. And nights, of course. I've been so excited!'
'I never heard of such a thing! Though, of course, Stevenson wrote _Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde_ in three days. But ten different stories.'... She sat quiet, her hands folded in her lap, very thoughtful, flatteringly thoughtful. 'It sounds a little like magic.'