A long time he waited; each passing footstep caused his heart to
flutter with expectation, only, however, to leave it to quieten in
disappointment as the sounds receded and died away in the echoing
ballroom above, or else mingled, maybe, in the turmoil of the busy
kitchens below. No Dorothy appeared, and his heart at last began to
fail.

"Surely she will not come," he murmured at length. "Lettice cannot
have been," and his spirit sank within him at the thought. He was cold
and fatigued, and once being infected with the idea that he was doomed
to disappointment, he quickly discovered all the discomforts of
his position and aggravated his misery by adding to them by his own
imagination.

He had made up his mind to depart, and was about to put his resolution
into practice, when a gentle voice broke the stillness of the room. He
held his breath to listen. There was surely someone at the door, for
he heard the handle turn; it creaked upon its hinges, and a moment
later a gentle step resounded on the floor, and he knew that he was
not alone. Could it be Dorothy? He pushed the door of his retreat ajar
and listened intently, but only the responsive throbbing of his own
heart could he hear.

"Doll!" he exclaimed.

There was no reply.

"Doll," he repeated, in a little louder tone as he pushed door and
tapestry aside and entered the room. "Doll!"