"But it has been no trouble—not at all," she assured them, when they apologised.
While anxious to help, and full of sympathy for their position, she plainly feared to be guilty of intrusion, and soon she took herself off with Mme. Courant to the ground floor. A clumsy but well-intentioned maiden had been deputed to wait upon the upstairs party, probably had been hired for the purpose, since Mme. Courant, an excellent bourgeoise, did most of her own house-work.
Dinner was laid in the smaller salon, in readiness for their arrival; and on the whole that first meal might be called a success. Mme. Courant was no mean cook; and though not much could be said as to the waiting from an English point of view, that was a minor matter, compared with the comfort of clean and cosy quarters, not to speak of the kind reception.
When, however, dinner was at an end, and they had moved into the larger salon, when a long evening lay before them, and there was nothing that had to be done, beyond some amount of unpacking which no one cared to begin at once,—then a change came. Then the black shadow of their captivity descended upon them all, even upon the valiant Roy; and for once the spirit of cheerfulness vanished.
For a quarter of an hour they kept together, nobody speaking. No one was able to speak. They had nothing to say.
Presently Mrs. Baron made a move, retreating into her own bedroom; and her husband followed her. Denham had flagged completely, taking refuge in a shady corner of the big fireplace, where he could scarcely be seen; and for Den to flag meant the flagging of everybody. As for Roy, but that he would have been ashamed, he could at this stage have flung himself on the ground, and have cried like a little child for very home-sickness.
He wanted Molly,—oh, most awfully! He wanted her this evening more than he had ever wanted anybody or anything in his life. The craving that took possession of him for Molly's face, Molly's voice, Molly's companionship, the passionate desire to have dear little Molly once more by his side, was a pain never to be forgotten.
Roy did not know how to bear himself under it. He had nothing to do, nothing with which to pass the time. He stood at the window, trying desperately to be cool and stoical as the minutes lagged past. Denham never moved, never spoke a word. Roy could make out his dark outline, as motionless as a carved image, a few yards distant. If only Denham would have talked, if something would have happened, to keep going would have been easier.
Presently Denham did speak. "Come here," he said.
Roy obeyed rather unwillingly.