CHAPTER II
An hour later Esther sat at a table in the magnificent Restaurant des Ambassadeurs, drinking her tea with enjoyment and revelling in the scene before her. She felt a little guilty at being here, for she was a conscientious young woman, averse to throwing money about when there was nothing coming in. Still, she had not indulged herself to any great extent since Miss Ferriss departed, having bent all her efforts towards finding work, and now that there was employment in prospect she thought she had earned the right to a little relaxation. Gaiety was all about her, the very air of this holiday place held the suggestion of it like a pervading perfume. Consequently, when she had roamed about for an hour and finally gravitated towards the Croisette, the temptation came upon her to satisfy her longing for tea in some place where she could look upon the care-free world that flocked here to play. Not that she belonged to that world, heaven knows!—though, travelling de luxe with patients, as she often did, she knew a good deal about it, and it was always fun to pretend for a brief time that she did not have to work for her living.
The huge room was filling rapidly; it was the hour of the thé dansant. An orchestra, rich with saxophones, played a waltz that everyone in France was singing. It was from the latest musical success now running in Paris, and it pleased Esther to think she had seen the piece itself, ten days ago: it made her feel herself au courant of things new and smart. Leaning back in her chair she listened to the insidious little tune that grew more captivating with each repetition, meanwhile letting her eyes wander happily over the circling figures of the dancers. Glamour overspread the scene; she was in the mood to see only the gracious and gay. For the moment the obvious boredom of confirmed pleasure-seekers escaped her entirely; the efforts of spoiled youth and jaded old age to escape from themselves had no place in the pattern of the life she saw before her. No, on the contrary, as she gazed through half-closed eyes, she fancied she saw a multi-coloured bed of flowers—flowers in rhythmic motion, that was all. Delicious frocks, swirling, floating, delicate shades of rose, mauve, periwinkle-blue, accents of black, graceful bodies, slender legs and ankles … not all so slender, she amended presently, becoming more critical. There were lower extremities of the grand-piano type, and short, fat feet with a look of pincushions resolutely stuffed into shoes.
Her own slender, well-shod feet would do more than pass muster here, she reflected with satisfaction. Indeed, although she was more plainly dressed than most of the women present, she rejoiced to feel she did not suffer too much by comparison. Esther was never dowdy. She was not ashamed of her well-tailored coat and skirt, marron in colour—which went well with her eyes and hair—nor of her little new felt hat, purchased in Paris. Her small choker fur was of good stone-marten, even her gloves and the handkerchief peeping from her pocket had the correct touch. Trifles, perhaps, but trifles that mattered. She made "good money," and she had always found it paid to dress well and carefully…. Of course, she would not be able to buy clothes on her salary from Dr. Sartorius—but what did it matter, for six months or so? It was surely worth a sacrifice to remain in France. Besides, she had a little saved up.
The doctor … that rather odd, cold creature. The prospect of working for him did not fill her with enthusiasm. What exactly was it she felt about him? She strove to analyse her impression, and found herself thinking only of his small, dull eyes and queer, flat forehead…. He was an able man, no charlatan, of that she was sure, instinctively. Primarily, a student, no doubt. What was his practice like, if indeed he had any? Not a good manner for a doctor, too remote, too negative, too lacking in humanity.
"For a moment I felt positively creepy!" she told herself. "What was it he reminded me of? Something that fascinated and repelled … or am I merely imagining things?"
After all, what did it matter? She always got on well with people….
"My Dinah's gone away to Carolina,
My Dinah's gone and broke my heart in two.
Lonesome and blue,
Nothin' to do,
I roams around a-feelin' like I had the 'flu…"
From the region of the saxophones a gorgeous baritone had soared forth. Glancing around she saw the glistening black face of a faultlessly attired American negro. The song, one of the mournful type now emanating from Broadway, was the last word in banality, but the honeyed voice, suave, insinuating, gave it the charm of a narcotic. Even the waiters stopped where they were and gazed as they listened, transfixed. Conversation died, the great room was stilled to drink in the notes. A storm of applause, the chorus was repeated once, twice. Then fell a moment's lull and ordinary sounds began again.
It was at this moment that, tea-pot in hand, Esther heard close at her elbow the choking sound of a woman's sob. It startled her so that she very nearly looked around, curious to see the person who was so moved by the sentimental tribute to the lost Dinah. Then she was glad she had not turned, for she caught these words, low, passionate, distinct: