"You have travelled?" she ventured at last.
"Oh, yes! I've done nothing else for five years. I've shot tigers, bears—I've lived with Chinamen and negroes—chummed with cannibals once—oh!"—with a laugh—"I've had a fine time!"
Her eyes were wistful.
Her hostess brought up a man to be introduced, and when she turned again, the chair was empty.
She did not see him again for two weeks.
There was an added pathos in the beautiful voice.
La belle Philomèle brought tears to many thousands of eyes, but her own were dry and restless. It was dawning on her that she had made a mistake—five years ago.
"Seen Hugh Hawksleigh?" she heard one man say to another. "Never been so disappointed in a chap in my life. Years ago he promised great things. Those articles of his on 'Foreign Ways and Doings' made quite a sensation, you know. And there was some talk of wild travels and a book that was going to be the book of the day. The travels are all right, but where's the book?"
"The usual thing—a woman," drawled the other. "Didn't you know? Some pretty coquette—the usual game—but the cost was heavier than usual—to him. It knocked it out of him, you know. I never saw a fellow so hard hit. That was five years ago, and he's never written a line since. Poor fellow!"
The knowledge that she had made a mistake five years ago was growing plainer to her.