"Why," she cried--"Why, Staff! Such a surprise!"
Nothing could have been more natural, spontaneous and unaffected. In an instant his every doubt and misgiving was erased--blotted out and as if it had never been. He caught and held her hands, for the moment speechless. But his eyes were all too eloquent: under their steadfast sincerity her own gaze wavered, shifted and fell. She coloured consummately, then with a gentle but determined manner disengaged her hands.
"Don't," she said in the low, intimate voice she knew so well how and when to employ--"don't! People are looking ..." And then with a bewildering shift, resuming her former spirit: "Of all things wonderful, Staff--to meet you here!"
She was acting--masking with her admirable art some emotion secret from him. He knew this--felt it intuitively, though he did not understand; and the knowledge affected him poignantly. What place had dissimulation in their understanding? Why need she affect what she did not feel--with him?
Distressed, bewildered, he met evasion with native straightforwardness.
"I'm stunned," he told her, holding her eyes with a grave, direct gaze; "I'm afraid I don't understand.... How does this happen?"
"Why, of course," she said, maintaining her artificial elation--"I infer--you've finished the play and are hurrying home. So--we meet, dear boy. Isn't it delightful?"
"Oh, just a flying trip. Max wanted me to see Bisson's new piece at the Porte St. Martin. I decided to go at the last moment--caught the Mauretania on eight hours' notice--stayed only three days in Paris--booked back on this tub by telegraph--travelled all day to catch it by this wretched, roundabout route. And--and there you are, my dear."
She concluded with a gesture charmingly ingenuous and disarming; but Staff shook his head impatiently.
"You came over--you passed through London twice--you stayed three days in Paris, Alison--and never let me know?"
"Obviously." She lifted her shoulders an inch, with a light laugh. "Haven't I just said as much?... You see, I didn't want to disturb you: it means so much to--you and me, Staff--the play."
Dissatisfied, knitting his brows faintly, he said: "I wonder ...!"
"My dear!" she protested gaily, "you positively must not scowl at me like that! You frighten me; and besides I'm tired to death--this wretched rush of travelling! Tomorrow we'll have a famous young pow-wow, but tonight--! Do say good night to me, prettily, like a dear good boy, and let me go.... It's sweet to see you again; I'm wild to hear about the play.... Jane!" she called, looking round.