Page:Harold Macgrath--The girl in his house.djvu/133

 have other ideas regarding her future. But at this period that doubt had no corner in his thoughts. Beyond the fact that he loved Doris with all his heart there was nothing clear.

In his room at the hotel there was a stack of mail. He was still doddering over the apartment idea. He detested the confusion of hotel life. He was no longer gregarious. True, he craved companionship, but not in droves. There were many invitations in the mail. People he had known formerly were beginning to recall him. All save one of these invitations he cast into the waste-basket. This invitation gave him a tingle of genuine pleasure. He was invited to meet a mighty hunter, a man he had known at Nairobi, in British East Africa; that very evening, too. A bit of real luck. Chittenden, the dramatic critic, whom he knew but indifferently, was the host. The affair would begin after a theater party; beer and skittles and no petticoats.

Armitage laid this aside and turned to the telephone. After some irresolution he unlatched the receiver. Presently a voice came over the wire. "Hello!" Always