"Oh, not yet," Charnac said. "Let's all go together."
"No," he pushed his chair away with sudden resolution. "I must go."
"But, my dear—" Desirée began.
"I must go," Humphrey repeated, slowly. It was like the repetition of a lesson. "I must go now."
"Oh, well—" Charnac said.
The waiter appeared with a bill. "You will allow me to pay?" Humphrey asked Charnac.
"Mais non, mais non, mon ami," he replied, good-naturedly. "It was I who asked you to come, wasn't it? Another night it will be your turn."
"Another night," echoed Margot, in her high-pitched voice. "J'adore les Anglais, ils sont si gentils."
"And why cannot you stop?" Desirée asked.
He avoided her eyes. Never could he explain in this room, with its scent and its music and its warmth, that turned vice into happiness and made virtue as chilling and intractable as marble. He only knew that he had to go. He made some excuse—any excuse—work—a headache ... he did not know what he was saying; he was only conscious of those narrow eyes beneath pale eyebrows, and red parted lips, and the soft hand that lay in his—the soft hand with the finger-tips as beautiful as rosy sea-shells.