She hoped he was.

She hoped he would come in with his accustomed manner and say civilly, "Forgive me for shutting the door; but my reason was--" And she would answer, "Really, I don't think we need trouble about your reasons, Vincent." She knew just the tone she would use, just the expression of a smile suppressed.

Then his quick eyes would fasten themselves on her face, and perhaps at the first glance would read the story of his defeat.

She knew her own glance would not waver.
At the end of half an hour she heard the low tones of conversation change to the brisk notes of leave-taking.

Her heart began to beat with fear, but not the kind of fear that makes people run away; rather the kind that makes them abdicate all reason and fan their emotions into a sort of inspiring flame.
She heard the door open into the corridor, but even then Vincent did not immediately come.