Because she had finished breakfast earlier than she expected, because she was bored.
Well then, I would fling away restraint and modesty, I would not be proud any more.
I slammed the door of the sitting-room and ran along the passage.
I did not wait for the lift, I climbed the stairs, three at a time, up to the third floor.
I knew the number of his room, 148, and I hammered at the door, very flushed in the face and breathless.
'Come in,' he shouted, and I opened the door, repenting already, my nerve failing me; for perhaps he had only just woken up, having been late last night, and would be still in bed, tousled in the head and irritable.
He was shaving by the open window, a camel-hair jacket over his pyjamas, and I in my flannel suit and heavy shoes felt clumsy and over dressed.
I was merely foolish, when I had felt myself dramatic.
'What do you want?' he said.
'Is something the matter?'
'I've come to say goodbye,' I said, 'we're going this morning.'
He stared at me, then put his razor down on the washstand.
'Shut the door,' he said.
I closed it behind me, and stood there, rather self-conscious, my hands hanging by my side.
'What on earth are you talking about?' he asked.
'It's true, we're leaving today.
We were going by the later train, and now she wants to catch the earlier one, and I was afraid I shouldn't see you again.
I felt I must see you before I left, to thank you.'
They tumbled out, the idiotic words, just as I had imagined them.
I was stiff and awkward; in a moment I should say he had been ripping.
'Why didn't you tell me about this before?' he said.
'She only decided yesterday.
It was all done in a hurry.
Her daughter sails for New York on Saturday, and we are going with her.
We're joining her in Paris, and going through to Cherbourg.'
'She's taking you with her to New York?'
'Yes, and I don't want to go.
I shall hate it; I shall be miserable.'
'Why in heaven's name go with her then?'
'I have to, you know that.
I work for a salary.
I can't afford to leave her.'
He picked up his razor again, and took the soap off his face.
'Sit down,' he said.
'I shan't be long.
I'll dress in the bathroom, and be ready in five minutes.'
He took his clothes off the chair and threw them on the bathroom floor, and went inside, slamming the door.
I sat down on the bed and began biting my nails.
The situation was unreal, and I felt like a lay-figure.
I wondered what he was thinking, what he was going to do.
I glanced round the room, it was the, room of any man, untidy and impersonal.
Lots of shoes, more than ever were needed, and strings of ties.
The dressing-table was bare, except for a large bottle of hair-wash and a pair of ivory hair-brushes.
No photographs. No snapshots.
Nothing like that.
Instinctively I had looked for them, thinking there would be one photograph at least beside his bed, or in the middle of the mantelpiece.
One large one, in a leather frame.
There were only books though, and a box of cigarettes.
He was ready, as he had promised, in five minutes.
'Come down to the terrace while I eat my breakfast,' he said.