‘You look tired,’ he said. ‘You must have had an anxious day.’
‘It wasn’t very comfortable. I think I’ll go straight to bed.’
‘I’ve ordered a car for the morning,’ he said. ‘Nine o’clock.’
‘Oh, thank you, dear. And I certainly hope you’re not going to bother to come all the way out again to see me off.’
‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I don’t think I will. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t drop me at the club on your way.’
She looked at him, and at that moment he seemed to be standing a long way off from her, beyond some borderline. He was suddenly so small and far away that she couldn’t be sure what he was doing, or what he was thinking, or even what he was.
‘The club is downtown,’ she said. ‘It isn’t on the way to the airport.’
‘But you’ll have plenty of time, my dear. Don’t you want to drop me at the club?’
‘Oh, yes – of course.’
‘That’s good. Then I’ll see you in the morning at nine.’
She went up to her bedroom on the third floor, and she was so exhausted from her day that she fell asleep soon after she lay down.
Next morning, Mrs Foster was up early, and by eight thirty she was downstairs and ready to leave.
Shortly after nine, her husband appeared. ‘Did you make any coffee?’ he asked.
‘No, dear. I thought you’d get a nice breakfast at the club. The car is here. It’s been waiting. I’m all ready to go.’
They were standing in the hall – they always seemed to be meeting in the hall nowadays – she with her hat and coat and purse, he in a curiously cut Edwardian jacket with high lapels.
‘Your luggage?’
‘It’s at the airport.’
‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Of course. And if you’re going to take me to the club first, I suppose we’d better get going fairly soon, hadn’t we?’
‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘Oh, yes – please!’
‘I’m just going to get a few cigars. I’ll be right with you. You get in the car.’
She turned and went out to where the chauffeur was standing, and he opened the car door for her as she approached.
‘What time is it?’ she asked him.
‘About nine fifteen.’
Mr Foster came out five minutes later, and watching him as he walked slowly down the steps, she noticed that his legs were like goat’s legs in those narrow stovepipe trousers that he wore. As on the day before, he paused halfway down to sniff the air and to examine the sky. The weather was still not quite clear, but there was a wisp of sun coming through the mist.
‘Perhaps you’ll be lucky this time,’ he said as he settled himself beside her in the car.
‘Hurry, please,’ she said to the chauffeur. ‘Don’t bother about the rug. I’ll arrange the rug. Please get going. I’m late.’
The man went back to his seat behind the wheel and started the engine.
‘Just a moment!’ Mr Foster said suddenly. ‘Hold it a moment, chauffeur, will you?’
‘What is it, dear?’ She saw him searching the pockets of his overcoat.
‘I had a little present I wanted you to take to Ellen,’ he said. ‘Now, where on earth is it? I’m sure I had it in my hand as I came down.’