"I'll write to her at once." "Yes, do.

If she can come next month, she will be here for the first night of 'Mrs.Fleming's Husband.'" Diana went away to write her letter, while Max remained pacing thoughtfully up and down the room, tapping restlessly with his fingers on his chest as he walked.

His face showed signs of fatigue--the hard work in connection with the production of his play was telling on him--and since the brief interview with his wife, a new look of anxiety, an alert, startled expression, had dawned in his eyes.
He seemed to be turning something over in his mind as he paced to and fro.

At last, apparently, he came to a decision.
"I'll do it," he said aloud.

"It's a possible chance of silencing her." He made his way downstairs, pausing at the door of the library, where Diana was poring over her letter to Joan.
"I find I must go out again," he said.