"A jolly evening for me to look forward to," grumbled her husband. "Very jolly."
"You'll find Monsieur Menard most interesting, I assure you. His adventures in Madagascar...."
"Madagascar!" Jemmie interrupted angrily. "What do I care about Madagascar! I'm not a girl's club. You'll be suggesting in a minute that I should read Robinson Crusoe on my way to the office."
Mary began to laugh, upon which her husband retired in dudgeon to the billiard-room, where he succeeded in making a break of thirty-one by the indiscriminate use of both white balls and was comparatively pleasant when he emerged again.
On the evening that Pierre was invited to dinner at eight, Mary began to dress at half-past six; by a quarter-past seven Adèle was in despair, and the room was littered with discarded frocks. While the discussion was proceeding, with Adèle becoming more voluble every moment, a note arrived by messenger boy from Jemmie to say he was afraid that he should not be able to get home to-night, as he had to go down into the country upon very important business. He asked Mary to make his apologies to Mr. Menard.
"Unusually polite," she thought, and went back to a consideration of her dress for to-night. Since her husband's note that problem assumed an even greater importance. In the end she chose light blue as the color, and the sash of a darker shade tied in a large bow over her left hip made her seem much younger. Adèle declared that she had not changed in ten years, and Mary blushed with pleasure at the obvious compliment.
"And I really do feel quite young to-night," she assured her maid.
During dinner Pierre talked away about Madagascar as if there were no other topic in the world. Mary, watching him in the rubied shadow above the candles, did not really pay much attention to what he was saying, but thought all the time how distinguished he looked and how like an Englishman in evening dress, notwithstanding the imperial. And Grandmamma had laid stress on his inferiority to herself. What a fool she had been to listen to her! In any gathering who would have stood out more clearly, Jemmie or Pierre? Why, Jemmie looked like a poulterer beside him. If only she had known enough about the world to argue with her grandmother then! How Pierre must have despised her! Did he despise her now, or was he simply not interested in her? Perhaps he was interested in nothing except Madagascar. He never seemed to look at her while he was talking, but always at an audience; he must have fallen into that habit from lecturing. Or perhaps he did not wish to embarrass her. Yes, probably that was the reason why he continued to talk about Madagascar without looking at her. She must remember that eleven years had gone by. Eleven years, during which he had had all these adventures of which he was talking. Eleven years, during which she had married and had had three children. It was only the suddenness of meeting again after so long which made her forget the sundering years ... the years ... the irrevocable years.... Odd that Jemmie should have decided not to come back to-night. Would he have come back if he had known that once, eleven years ago, this despised Frenchman had possessed her heart and that no one else had ever touched it since? Would he be jealous? Pierre was pledging her in a glass of port wine. She never drank red wine, but to-night she must take a sip in response. Would the maids think it odd if she drank Pierre's health? No, no, they would attribute it to foreign ways.
"Salut," she murmured.
"Trinquez," he laughed, raising his glass to meet hers. There was a faint tinkle, and for a brief moment their fingers touched.