“Oh, yes,” she laughed softly. “We had some gay times, a little party of us. We shall be happy here, too; you will see. I mus' make a little dinner very soon, but not unless you will come. You will?”
“Do you want me very much?”
He placed his empty cup on the table and leaned closer to her, smiling. She did not smile in response; instead, her eyes fell and there was the faintest, pathetic quiver of her lower lip.
“Already you know that,” she said in a low voice.
She rose quickly, turned away from him and walked across the room to the curtains which opened upon the hall. One of these she drew back.
“My frien', you mus' go now,” she said in the same low voice. “To-morrow I will see you again. Come at four an' you shall drive with me—but not—not more—now. Please!”
She stood waiting, not looking at him, but with head bent and eyes veiled. As he came near she put out a limp hand. He held it for a few seconds of distinctly emotional silence, then strode swiftly into the hall.
She immediately let the curtain fall behind him, and as he got his hat and coat he heard her catch her breath sharply with a sound like a little sob.
Dazed with glory, he returned to the hotel. In the lobby he approached the glittering concierge and said firmly:
“What is the Salone Margherita? Cam you get me a box there to-night?”