In a moment Oliver Haddo stood before her. He
did not seem astonished that she was there. As she stood on the landing,
it occurred to her suddenly that she had no reason to offer for her
visit, but his words saved her from any need for explanation.
'I've been waiting for you,' he said.
Haddo led her into a sitting-room. He had an apartment in a _maison
meublee_, and heavy hangings, the solid furniture of that sort of house
in Paris, was unexpected in connexion with him. The surroundings were so
commonplace that they seemed to emphasise his singularity. There was a
peculiar lack of comfort, which suggested that he was indifferent to
material things. The room was large, but so cumbered that it gave a
cramped impression. Haddo dwelt there as if he were apart from any
habitation that might be his. He moved cautiously among the heavy
furniture, and his great obesity was somehow more remarkable. There was
the acrid perfume which Margaret remembered a few days before in her
vision of an Eastern city.
Asking her to sit down, he began to talk as if they were old
acquaintances between whom nothing of moment had occurred.
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