Rodney hadn’t been in the house before, and he reflected, as he stood at the door, after ringing the bell, that his own house was quite meek and conventional alongside this.  The grin that this consideration afforded him, was still on his lips when, a servant having opened the door, he found himself face to face with the architect.

Bertie, top-coated and hat in hand, was waiting for Eleanor, who was coming down the stairs followed by a maid with her carriage coat.  He returned Rodney’s nod pretty stiffly, as was natural enough, since Rodney’s grin had distinctly brightened up at sight of him.

Eleanor said, rather negligently, “Hello, Rod.  We’re just dashing off to the Palace to see a perfectly exquisite little dancer Bertie’s discovered down there.  She comes on at half past nine, so we’ve got to fly.  Want to come?”

“No,” Rodney said.  “I came over to see Jim.  Is he at home?”

The maid was holding out the coat for Eleanor’s arms, Bertie was fussing around ineffectually, hooking his stick over his left arm to give him a free right hand to do something with, he didn’t quite know what.  But Eleanor, at Rodney’s question, just stood for a second quite still.  She wasn’t looking at anybody, but the expression in her eyes was sullen.

“Yes, he’s at home,” she said at last.

“Busy, I suppose;” said Rodney.  Her inflection had dictated this reply.

“Yes, he’s busy,” she repeated absently and in a tone still more coldly hostile, though Rodney perceived that the hostility was not meant for him.  And so plainly did the tone and the look and the arrested attitude proclaim that she was following out a train of thought and hadn’t as yet got to the end of it, that he stood as still as she was.

Bertie, irreproachably correct as always, settled his shoulders inside his coat, and took his stick in his right hand again.  Eleanor now looked around at him.

“Wait two minutes,” she said, “if you don’t mind.”  Then, to Rodney, “Come along.”  And she led the way up the lustrous, velvety teakwood stair.

He followed her.  But arrived at the drawing-room floor, he protested.

“Look here!” he said.  “If Jim’s busy ...”

“You’ve never been in here before, have you?” she asked.  “How’s Rose?  Jim saw her, you know, in New York.”

“Yes,” he said.  “Rose wrote to me she’d seen him, and I thought I’d drop around for a chat.  But if he’s busy ...”

“Oh, don’t be too dense, Rodney!” she said.  “A man has to be busy when he’s known to be in the house and won’t entertain his wife’s guests.  Go up one flight more and to the door that corresponds to that one.  It won’t do you any good to knock.  He’ll either not answer or else tell you to go to hell.  Just sing out who you are and go right in.”

She gave him a nod and a hard little smile, and went down-stairs again to Bertie.