Naturally, Masham came across many acquaintances in such a cosmopolitan rendezvous as “Monte.” Wynyard also encountered several familiar faces, and, one afternoon, as he was passing through a great crowd at the “Café de Paris,” a light hand was laid on his arm, and, looking down, he was astonished to meet the upturned blue eyes of Mrs. Ramsay—Mrs. Ramsay in black, but no longer in weeds; Mrs. Ramsay another woman, and ten years younger; Mrs. Ramsay self-confident, prosperous, and handsome.
“Why, it’s Owen!” she exclaimed. “Who would have thought of seeing you here?”
He smiled affirmatively, and glanced at her companions round the tea-table. Ottinge was strongly represented: here were the Rector and Miss Aurea, also General and Mrs. Morven, and a smart young man in attendance on the younger lady.
“Hullo, Owen!” exclaimed Mr. Morven, rising and shaking hands; “this is an unexpected meeting!” and he stared with puzzled interest at the erect figure, high-bred face, unimpeachable grey suit, and Homburg hat.
“I’m not over here to gamble,” he continued. “We are at Mentone, and I’ve come to have a look at this pretty, wicked place.”
“It’s pretty wicked by all accounts!” replied Wynyard, speaking now, as Mr. Morven noted, in the tone of equal to equal.
“Aurea,” he said, turning to his daughter, “don’t you see Owen?”
Miss Morven—who had entirely regained her beauty, and was charmingly dressed—glanced up from underneath her immense rose-wreathed hat, and coolly surveyed her former lover. She was, if possible, prettier than ever, he said to himself, as he doffed his hat in acknowledgment of her curt nod; but her eyes, as they met his, resembled two dark pools—frozen. For some unknown and unguessed-at reason, Aurea was no longer friendly to him—much less anything nearer—and the discovery seemed to plant a dagger in his throat. He found it desperately difficult to utter a word, much less to carry on a brisk conversation with the Rector and Mrs. Ramsay. General and Mrs. Morven were, he concluded, the important elderly couple who sat at the other side of the table, and the young man, who was engrossing Miss Morven’s sole attention, was some idle ass, who wore his hair parted in the middle, and three rings on his left hand. He hated him then and there!
Meanwhile, Miss Morven encouraged him, and kept up a conversation in low, confidential tones. Her hat concealed her face, and Wynyard realised, for the first time in his life, how rude a hat could be! This black hat, garlanded with pink flowers, was but too eloquently expressive of the fact, that its wearer desired to ignore the existence—much less the presence—of her aunts’ late employé.
However, the Rector and Mrs. Ramsay were most anxiously disposed to make amends for Miss Morven’s detachment.