“No wonder she became confused as to her duty,” he muttered.  “I even feel myself becoming confused as to mine.”

“Bring me up something to eat,” he now heard this latest comer shout from her doorway.  “I don’t want tea and I don’t want soup; I want meat, meat.  And I shan’t go down afterward, either.  I’m going to stay right here.  I’ve seen enough of people I don’t know.  And of my sister too.  She was cross to me because I hated the coach and wanted to walk, and she shan’t come into my room till I tell her to.  Don’t forget; it’s meat I want, just meat and something sweet.  Pudding’s good.”

All shocking to Mr. Ransom’s taste, but more so to his heart.  For notwithstanding the coarseness of the expressions, the voice was Georgian’s and laden with a hundred memories.

He was still struggling with the agitation of this discovery when he heard Mrs. Deo give another tap on his wife’s door.  This time it was unlocked and pushed softly open, and through the crack thus made some whispered orders were given.  These seemed to satisfy Mrs. Deo, for she called the maid to her and together they hurried down the hall to a rear staircase, communicating with the kitchen.  This was fortunate for him, for if they had turned his way he would have had to issue from his room and take open part in the excitement of the moment.

A few minutes of quiet now supervened.  During these he decided that if he must keep up this watch—­and nothing now could deter him from doing so—­he must take a position consistent with his assumed character.  Detection by Georgian was what he now feared.  Whatever happened, she must not get the smallest glimpse of him or be led by any indiscretion on his part to suspect his presence under the same roof as herself.  Yet he must see all, hear all that was possible to him.  For this a continuance of the present conditions, an open door and no light, were positively requisite.  But how avert the comment which this unusual state of things must awaken if noticed?  But one expedient suggested itself.  He would light a cigar and sit in the window.  If questioned he would say that he was engaged in deciding how he would end the story he was writing; that such contemplation called for darkness but above all for good air; that had the weather been favorable he would have obtained the latter by opening the window; but it being so bad he could only open the door.  Certain eccentricities are allowable in authors.

This settled, he proceeded to take a chair and envelope himself in smoke.  With eyes fixed on the dimly-lighted vista of the hall before him, he waited.  What would happen next?  Would his wife reappear?  No; supper was coming up.  He could hear dishes rattling on the rear stairway, and in another moment saw the maid coming down the hall with a large tray in her hands.  She stopped at Anitra’s door, knocked, and was answered by the harsh command: 

“Set it down.  I’ll get it for myself.”