Twilight Sleep
went up to her boudoir, she glanced expectantly at the writing-table, as if revelation might be there. It was, in the shape of a telephone message.
"Mr. Manford will be at home by seven. He would like to see you for a few minutes before dinner."
It was nearly seven, and Pauline settled herself by the fire and unfolded the evening paper. She seldom had time for its perusal, but today there might be some reference to the Mothers' Day Meeting; and her newly-regained serenity made it actually pleasant to be sitting there undisturbed, waiting for her husband.
"Dexter—how tired you look!" she exclaimed when he came in. It occurred to her at once that she might possibly insinuate an allusion to the new healer; but wisdom counselled a waiting policy, and she laid down her paper and smiled expectantly.
Manford gave his shoulders their usual impatient shake. "Everybody looks tired at the end of a New York day; I suppose it's what New York is for." He sat down in the armchair facing hers, and stared at the fire.
"I wanted to see you to talk about plans—a rearrangement," he began. "It's so hard to find a quiet minute."
"Yes; but there's no hurry now. The Delavans don't dine till half-past eight."
"Oh, are we dining there?" He reached for a cigarette.
