It was now an hour after dinner-time.
Oh! there were a hundred things that might have kept him.

He had often been later than this: he might have missed the volor he meant to catch; the Convention might have been prolonged; he might be exhausted, and think it better to sleep in Paris after all, and have forgotten to wire.
He might even have wired to Mr.Phillips, and the secretary have forgotten to pass on the message.
She went at last, hopelessly, to the telephone, and looked at it.

There it was, that round silent month, that little row of labelled buttons.
She half decided to touch them one by one, and inquire whether anything had been heard of her husband: there was his club, his office in Whitehall, Mr.Phillips's house, Parliament-house, and the rest.

But she hesitated, telling herself to be patient.

Oliver hated interference, and he would surely soon remember and relieve her anxiety.
Then, even as she turned away, the bell rang sharply, and a white label flashed into sight .-- WHITEHALL.
She pressed the corresponding button, and, her hand shaking so much that she could scarcely hold the receiver to her ear, she listened.
"Who is there ?" Her heart leaped at the sound of her husband's voice, tiny and minute across the miles of wire.
"I--Mabel," she said.