VI
Eve scarcely spoke in the car as they drove over the long, undulating road to Brighton. When Quiltan came to the flat he found her with a queer hard light in her eyes. She nodded in a detached kind of way when he told her he knew. In the same detached way she listened to his half-scared, wholly genuine, protestations of love. She even allowed him to kiss her.
“I want you to come with me,” he had said—“to come away now.”
And with a fierceness which astonished him she had answered:
“Yes—yes— I don’t care—I will—will. Seems rather funny to me! All right. I’ve heaps of clothes—I’ll come—yes.”
At Crawley a tyre burst, and it took nearly an hour to wake up a garage and procure a new outer cover. It was after 10.30 when they drew up before the Cosmopolis, with all its naughty lights winking at the sea.
Eve laughed as they stood in the foyer, and the porter brought in her beautiful new suit case.
“Don’t,” said Quiltan.
For the first time she seemed aware of his presence, and turned with kindlier light in her eyes.
“I’m sorry. I’m not playing the game, am I? But it does seem funny. I suppose we have supper now. Will you wait, and I’ll run up and put on a pretty frock for you?”
He would have stopped her, but she was gone with the words.
Rather nervously he entered the great dining-hall and ordered a table for two. There were many guests present, and his eyes travelled quickly from table to table. Wynne was nowhere to be seen, and with this a sudden intolerable excitement seized him. It was short-lived, however, for his next glance lighted on the fluffy head of little Miss Esme, her eyes demurely lowered over a dessert plate. Facing her, with his back to Quiltan, sat Wynne. They were some distance away, and while the room was crowded it was impossible to see them from the table he had taken.
Quiltan took a cigarette from his case and passed out to wait for Eve.
As she stepped from the lift he thought her the most wonderful being he had ever seen. Fragile—adorable—desirable—everything to set a man’s heart on fire.
With a passion he could not control he whispered:
“You dear, beautiful—beautiful dear!”
Her answering smile seemed to come from a long way off.
They took their places, hers looking in the direction of Wynne’s table, and a busy waiter approached:
“Ah, in one minute the supper. Wine? Cliquot ver’ good.”
“Champagne?” queried Quiltan.
“I suppose so—yes, of course.”
He gave the order.
A consommé was brought in little cups. Presently a cork popped into a serviette and the creaming wine tinkled into the glasses. A few guests at the neighbouring table rose and left, one or two others following their example.
The company began to thin out, and vistas occurred through which one could see people in other parts of the room. The conversation lost its general constant hum and became isolated and more individual.