Another moment and the expression of her face had changed again; he saw
something there that he had never seen before, something unguarded and
appealing. He was near the end of doubt.
He felt that if he stayed with her another moment he would lose his head,
and he did not want to lose it--yet! He struggled desperately between his
desire to stay and his will to go--if there was any difference between
desire and will.
His struggles were cut short by the entrance of Tyson.
He walked into the room at half-past five, greeted Stanistreet cheerfully
(his eyes twinkling), ordered fresh tea, and began to talk to his wife as
if nothing had happened. If Louis had not known him so well, he would
have said he was immensely improved since the remarkable occasion on
which they had last met. He had quarreled with his best friend; he had
betrayed his wife and then left her; and he could come back with a
twinkle in his eye.
From where Stanistreet sat Mrs. Nevill Tyson's face was a profil perdu;
but he could hear her breath fluttering in her throat like a bird.
"Didn't I see you two at the 'Criterion' last night?" said Tyson. "What
did you think of 'Rosemary,' Molly?"
"I--I thought it was very good."
"From a purely literary point of view, eh? As you sat with your back to
the stage your judgment was not biased by such vulgar accessories as
scenery and acting. No doubt that is the way to enjoy a play. What are
your engagements for to-night?"
"Mine? I have none, Nevill."
"Ah--well, then, you might tell them to get my room ready for me. Don't
go, Stanistreet."
He had come home to stay.