At the last moment he was afraid to exclude Irene. "I'll wait outside," he went on, "till you come out."
Rain fell that night, and Maurice was glad when, along the court, he could see them strolling towards him.
"A hansom, eh?" he said. "Or let's have a drink first."
In the Monico, they sat round a table and nothing mattered to Maurice and Jenny, except eyes. The room seemed full of eyes, not the eyes of its chattering population, but their own. Never before had a London night seemed so gay. Never before had crême de menthe been dyed so richly green. They began to discuss love and jealousy. As Romeo hesitated before he joined the fatal masquerade, Maurice was seized with an impulse to make himself as poor a thing as possible.
"I couldn't be jealous," he vowed. "I think everybody can be in love with two or three people at once."
"I don't," said Jenny.
"Oh, yes, it's absurd to be jealous. Quite absurd. Different people suit different moods. The only trouble is when they meet."
He had caught hold of Jenny's hand while they were speaking, and now she drew it away.
"I think I know what he means," said Irene.
"You think so," scoffed Jenny. "You! You're potty, then."