He nodded and rang. A sleepy night porter opened, recognised Clive,
and touched his hat.
"Take us to the top, Mike," he said.
"Have you the keys, sorr?"
"Yes."
They entered the cage and it shot up to the top floor.
"Wait for us, Mike."... And to Athalie: "This is Michael Daly who will
do anything you ask of him--won't you, Mike?"
"I will that, sorr," said the big Irishman, tipping his hat to
Athalie.
"But, Clive," she persisted, bewildered, still clinging to his arm, "I
don't understand why--"
"Little goose, hush!" he replied, subduing the excitement in his voice
and fitting the key into the door.
"One moment, Athalie," he added, "until I light up. Now!"
She entered the lighted hallway, walking on a soft green carpet, and
turned, obeying the guiding pressure of his arm, into a big square
room which sprang into brilliant illumination as he found the switch.
Green and gold were the hangings and prevailing colours; there were
rugs, wide, comfortable chairs and lounges, bookcases, a picture or
two in deep glowing colours, a baby-grand piano, and an open fire
loaded for business.
"Is it done in good taste, Athalie?" he asked.
"It is charming. Is it yours, Clive?"
He laughed, slipped his arm under hers and led her along the hallway,
opening door after door; and first she was invited to observe a very
modern and glistening bathroom, then a bedroom all done in grey and
rose with dainty white furniture and a white-bear rug beside the bed.
"Why this is a woman's room!" she exclaimed, puzzled.
He only laughed and drew her along the hall, showing her another
bedroom with twin beds, a maid's room, a big clothes press, and
finally, a completely furnished kitchen, very modern with its
porcelain baseboard and tiled walls.
"What do you think of all this, Athalie?" he insisted.
"Why it's exquisite, Clive. Whose is it?"
They walked back to the square living-room. He said, teasingly: "Do
you remember, the first time I saw you after those four years,--that
first evening when I came in to surprise you and found you sitting by
the radiator--in your nightie, Athalie?"
"Yes," she said, laughing and blushing as she always did when he
tormented her with that souvenir.
"And I said that you ought to have an open fire. And a cat. Didn't I?"
"Yes."
"There's your fire, Athalie;" he drew a match from his tiny flat gold
case, struck it, and lighted the nest of pine shavings under the
logs;--"and Michael has the cat when you want it."