Rodney stood where she had left him, in two minds whether to carry out her instructions or to wait until he heard her and Bertie go out and then quietly follow them.  It was a beastly situation, dragged into a family quarrel like that; forced to commit an intrusion that was so plainly labeled in advance.  And on the other hand, it was a decidedly interesting situation.  If Eleanor was as reckless as that with facts most women keep to themselves as long as possible, what would her outspoken husband be.  But if he were full of his grievances, he probably wouldn’t talk about Rose.

What really determined his action was Eleanor’s discovery, or pretended discovery down in the hall below, that her gloves weren’t what she wanted and her instructions to the maid to go up and get her a fresh pair.  It would be too ridiculous to be caught there—­lurking.

So he mounted the next flight, found the door Eleanor had indicated, knocked smartly on it, and to forestall his getting told to go to hell, sang out at the same time, “This is Rodney Aldrich.  May I come in?”

“Come in, of course,” Randolph called.  “I’m glad to see you,” he added, coming to meet his guest.  “But do you mind telling me how the devil you got in here?  Some poor wretch will lose his job, you know, if Eleanor finds out about this.  When I’m in this room, sacred to reflection and research, it’s a first-class crime to let me be disturbed.”

It didn’t need his sardonic grin to point the satire of his words.  The way he had uttered “sacred to reflection and research,” was positively savage.

Rodney said curtly, “Eleanor sent me up herself.  I didn’t much want to come, to tell the truth, when I heard you were busy.”

“Eleanor!” her husband repeated.  “I thought she’d gone out—­with her poodle.”

Rodney said, with unconcealed distaste, “They were on the point of going out when I came in.  That’s how Eleanor happened to see me.”

With a visible effort, Randolph recovered a more normal manner.  “I’m glad it happened that way,” he said.  “Get yourself a drink.  You’ll find anything you want over there, I guess, and something to smoke; then we’ll sit down and have an old-fashioned talk.”

The source of drinks he indicated was a well-stocked cellarette at the other side of the room.  But Rodney’s eye fell first on a decanter and siphon on the table, within reach of the chair Randolph had been sitting in.  His host’s glance followed his.

“This is Bourbon I’ve got over here,” he added.  “I suppose you prefer Scotch.”

“I don’t believe I want anything more to drink just now,” Rodney said.  And as he turned to the smoking table to get a cigar, Randolph allowed himself another sardonic grin.

The preliminaries were gone through rather elaborately; chairs drawn up and adjusted, ash-trays put within reach; cigars got going satisfactorily.  But the talk they were supposed to prepare the way for didn’t at once begin.