John went out and closed the drawing-room door behind him. Then he left
the house without going up-stairs and saying hello to Paula and sitting
down on the edge of her bed, as he had meant to do, and telling her all
about his talk with the piano tuner.

It really was late and he must be getting started. Only why had he closed
the drawing-room door so carefully behind him? So that his wife shouldn't
be disturbed by the infernal racket those fellows always made tuning
pianos? Or so that she mightn't even know, until he had finished his work
and gone, that Anthony March had come back at all? And not knowing,
should not come down _en negligée_ and ask whether he had brought his
songs for her. Had he brought them? Certainly John had given him a good
enough chance to say so. And if he had brought them and Paula did not
come, would he leave them for her with Nat? Or would he carry them away
in his little black satchel?

All the way out to the hospital John kept turning Anthony March over in
his mind and the last thing to leave it was what had been the first
impression of all. The fine strength of that hand and wrist which tuned
grand pianos with a T wrench.

He hated himself for having shut the door.

And as it happened this act did not prevent Paula from finding March. The
tyrant who looked after her hair had given her an appointment that
morning at ten. So, a little before that hour and just as March was
finishing off his job, she came down, dressed for the street. She came
into the drawing-room and with good-humored derision, smiled at him.

"I knew you'd come and do it," she told him.