It seemed to him that his head had just touched the pillow when he was
awakened by his door being pounded. Sitting up in bed, he consulted his
watch. Seven exactly!
“I'm awake,” he shouted. With that he jumped out of bod to prevent
himself from drowsing.
His first thought was of her; again he was going to meet her. The
prospect filled him with excitement, but not with gladness. His dreams
had been troubled by her; there had been no moment since he had closed
his eyes that he had been without her. The wildness of that kiss,
bestowed in the dark by a woman humbling herself, had set his blood on
fire. It was not right that a man should be kissed like that, and yet he
longed to reexperience the sensation.
“Any woman could have done it,” he argued. “This isn't love; it's
nothing peculiar to Santa. Any reasonably beautiful woman could have
done it by acting the way she acted. I had consoled myself that I was
immune from women. I was starving, and I didn't know it.”
His sane mind warned him that it would be wise to avoid further
encounters. She was too alluring for him to withstand. There were too
many things about her that were unaccountable. There was her frenzied
display of infatuation for both himself and the Prince, all within the
space of twelve hours.
He was brushing his hair and viewing his reflection in the shabby
mirror, when he reached this point. He stopped brushing and regarded his
reflection intently. What could any woman discover in those features
to go mad over? It was a hard face, cleanshaven, bony, and powerful,
roughened by the wind and tanned by the sun. It was the mask of an
ascetic, which concealed rather than revealed the emotions. And yet once
it had been sensitive; you could trace that in the kindly blueness of
the eyes and the faint tenderness of the full-lipped mouth. The hair was
a rusty brown, growing thin about the temples; the nose was pinched at
the nostrils with long-endured suffering--the brow furrowed. He smiled
in amused disapproval and went on with his brushing. Not the face of an
Apollo! Nothing to rave about!
And yet, despite his looks, here was at least one woman who, for
whatever reason, was desperate to marry him. On the drive through the
dawn from the dock to the hotel she had left no doubt of her intentions.
It inflamed his curiosity. Though he was nearing forty, with the
exception of that one disastrous affair, women were still for him an
untried adventure. But in the case of Santa, to indulge his curiosity
further might lead to penalties. She was liable to repeat last night's
performance; the journey to London would probably provide her with a
fitting opportunity. If it did, could he muster the cruelty to refuse
her?
On one point his mind was made up: he would not marry her. He had no
time to waste on marriage. With her it would be folly. Moreover, while
her breaking down of reticences had spurred his eagerness, it had
forfeited his respect. It had robbed him of his prerogative of conquest.
It had changed him from the hunter into the hunted. He was all but
trapped.
“Trapped!”
He was fastening his bag. He pressed the catch into the lock and stood
up.
“Trapped! Not yet. Not exactly.”
Immediately his mind began to race, devising plans for eluding capture.
He didn't need to keep his breakfast appointment with her. He could miss
the eight-thirty and travel to London later. He could slip out unnoticed
and take up his abode in another hotel. Once he had lost her, he would
have put himself beyond temptation. She would have no clew to his
whereabouts, nor he to hers.
As he passed slowly down the stairs, he was still undecided as to how he
should act. On arriving in the hall, he loitered by the hotel desk, half
determined to call for his reckoning and make a bolt for it. While he
dallied, the yearning to see her for a last time swam uppermost. After
all, he owed something to the only woman who had paid him the compliment
of loving him. He would not speak to her, would not let her know that he
was there. He would peep into the room unseen and remember her always as
waiting for him.
Bag in hand, he strode along the passage to the coffee-room, where
breakfast was being served. The baize doors were a-swing with scurrying
waiters. Stooping, he peered through the panes. Pushing the doors
slightly open, he gazed more steadily. The room was littered with
ungroomed people, their heads bowed, their elbows flapping, like a flock
of city sparrows snatching crumbs from beneath the hoofs of passing
traffic. Nowhere could he espy her, his rarer bird of the dainty
plumage.
He grew ashamed of his furtiveness. Why should he be afraid of her? She
shouldn't be disappointed. She should find him gallantly expecting her.
Resigning his bag to a solicitous bell-boy, he drew himself up to his
lean western height and entered.