In the Dagonet drawing-room the lamps had long been lit, and Mrs.
Fairford, after a last impatient turn, had put aside the curtains of
worn damask to strain her eyes into the darkening square. She came
back to the hearth, where Charles Bowen stood leaning between the prim
caryatides of the white marble chimney-piece.
"No sign of her. She's simply forgotten."
Bowen looked at his watch, and turned to compare it with the
high-waisted Empire clock.
"Six o'clock. Why not telephone again? There must be some mistake.
Perhaps she knew Ralph would be late."
Laura laughed. "I haven't noticed that she follows Ralph's movements
so closely. When I telephoned just now the servant said she'd been out
since two. The nurse waited till half-past four, not liking to come
without orders; and now it's too late for Paul to come."
She wandered away toward the farther end of the room, where,
through half-open doors, a shining surface of mahogany reflected a
flower-wreathed cake in which two candles dwindled.
"Put them out, please," she said to some one in the background; then she
shut the doors and turned back to Bowen.
"It's all so unlucky--my grandfather giving up his drive, and mother
backing out of her hospital meeting, and having all the committee down
on her. And Henley: I'd even coaxed Henley away from his bridge! He
escaped again just before you came. Undine promised she'd have the boy
here at four. It's not as if it had never happened before. She's always
breaking her engagements."
"She has so many that it's inevitable some should get broken."
"All if she'd only choose! Now that Ralph has had into business, and
is kept in his office so late, it's cruel of her to drag him out every
night. He told us the other day they hadn't dined at home for a month.
Undine doesn't seem to notice how hard he works."