"You do not remember me," she said to Claire. "But you were here, at my wedding-feast.... Do you remember?... I hope your husband will soon be well!"
Her husband! It took a woman to voice this new estate with calm simplicity. This was the first time the phrase had been used. She turned to Stillman. He looked away.
Now came music and dancing—Old World music and long lines of men swaying to its rhythm. Lycurgus insisted upon Stillman joining them. Claire wondered at him as he rose. It was purely a formality, and Stillman had nothing to do beyond walk through his part, but Claire marveled that he could have been persuaded. Nellie Holmes railed audibly, and even Miss Proll shook her head. But Claire's inner vision pierced beyond the incongruity of Stillman's performance. And she knew that he had done this thing because he understood. The fruits of a crucial instance lay beneath the surface of his smiling acceptance of the situation. When he was seated again, flushed and somewhat embarrassed for all his nonchalance, she said, softly:
"If Danilo could have seen you he would have been very happy."
The bride's cake was brought on. Claire went through the formality of cutting the first piece, and then Lycurgus bore it away to a serving-table. The company rose to their feet with upraised glasses. It was Stillman's glass that touched Claire's.
They left soon after this last formality. Lycurgus had gathered a box of sweetmeats and dainties for Danilo, and a bottle of champagne. Stillman and Claire stopped at the hotel. But the nurse denied them admittance to the sick-room.
"He is tired, as you can imagine," she explained. "And to tell the truth, he has more fever than is good."
"I wonder if we did the right thing, after all?" Claire asked Stillman as they went toward the elevator.
"We must believe so," he answered, gravely.