But this is Miss Starling, Imperia Starling. Do you understand, you idiot? . . . Slamming down the receiver she snapped out to Ringrose. He says he'll call me back in five minutes.
The room was charged with an unpleasant electricity. Ringrose again began to pace back and forth. Imperia towered over a table and flung a heap of books, one at a time, to the floor.
Damn him! Damn him! she moaned.
It was not quite clear to Ambrose who was being damned. Also he was beginning to be furiously embarrassed by the Count's foreboding glare. Only Mama Starling sat quietly in her chair, her face still hidden behind her palms. The tension was broken, after what seemed a lifetime to Ambrose, by the tinkling of the telephone bell. Both Imperia and Ringrose sprang towards the instrument. It was Imperia, however, who lifted the receiver.
Yes, she cried impatiently, this is Miss Starling. . . . A long pause followed. . . . Imperia tapped her foot on the floor. . . . At last. Is that you, Lee? . . . You can? Tomorrow. . . . Good-bye!
She was positively beaming as she announced to the room: Tomorrow at one! It's arranged.
I've stood sufficiently! A new figure had appropriated the centre of the stage.
