Imogen had taken up a novel sent from the library,and stood absorbed.Rather sharply,because of the queer feeling in her breast,Winifred said:
"Take that up,dear,and have a rest before dinner."Imogen,still reading,passed up the stairs.Winifred heard the door of her room slammed to,and drew a long savouring breath.Was it spring tickling her senses--whipping up nostalgia for her 'clown,'against all wisdom and outraged virtue?A male scent!Afaint reek of cigars and lavender-water not smelt since that early autumn night six months ago,when she had called him 'the limit.'
Whence came it,or was it ghost of scent--sheer emanation from memory?She looked round her.Nothing--not a thing,no tiniest disturbance of her hall,nor of the diningroom.A little day-dream of a scent--illusory,saddening,silly!In the silver basket were new cards,two with 'Mr.and Mrs.Polegate Thom,'and one with 'Mr.
Polegate Thom'thereon;she sniffed them,but they smelled severe.
'I must be tired,'she thought,'I'll go and lie down.'Upstairs the drawing-room was darkened,waiting for some hand to give it evening light;and she passed on up to her bedroom.This,too,was half-curtained and dim,for it was six o'clock.Winifred threw off her coat--that scent again!--then stood,as if shot,transfixed against the bed-rail.Something dark had risen from the sofa in the far corner.A word of horror--in her family--escaped her:
"God!"
"It's I--Monty,"said a voice.
Clutching the bed-rail,Winifred reached up and turned the switch of the light hanging above her dressing-table.He appeared just on the rim of the light's circumference,emblazoned from the absence of his watch-chain down to boots neat and sooty brown,but--yes!--split at the toecap.His chest and face were shadowy.Surely he was thin--or was it a trick of the light?He advanced,lighted now from toe-cap to the top of his dark head-surely a little grizzled!