As usual, the hall was untenanted, with
no servant to answer questions. He searched the dark recesses of a
dirty letter-rack, on the chance that he might find a telegram from
his wife waiting for him. Then he went gaily up the interminable
staircase, making nothing now of its five flights, enjoying their
steepness as productive of agreeable exercise.
"Hulloa!" he muttered. "What's this?"
A woman's hat and parasol were lying on a chair, and there was a
valise on the floor by the chest of drawers. Turning, he gave a cry of
delight. Mavis was stretched on the bed, fast asleep.
She woke at the sound of his voice, scrambled down, and flung herself
into his arms.
"Will, oh, Will. My dearest Will!
"My darling--my little sweetheart. But how have you come to me--have
you flown?"
"Don't be silly."
He was devouring her face with his kisses, straining her to his breast
in a paroxysm of pleasure, almost suffocating himself and her in the
ardor of the embrace, and jerking out his words as though they were
gasps for breath.
"When did you get my wire? Why, it's impossible. I on'y wired
two-forty-three. Is it witchcraft or just a dream?"
"Did you wire? I never got it. I was so anxious that I couldn't stay
there any longer without news.
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