“Ah!” he cried of a sudden. “The thing had escaped me. My dear, to-morrow put on your very best gown. We are going to the wedding of Robert and José Tuyte.”
Madeleine winced.
“Must we, Pierre? José Tuyte is awfully clever, I know. But she is an actress, and—and I do not go well with the stage. I am too slow for them.”
(If to appear nightly in the costume of a child of seven at The Dead Rat, there to accept cigarettes and encourage the purchase of champagne, is to be an actress, Madeleine was perfectly right. That she was too slow for such a ‘stage’ was unarguable.)
“My dear, what would you? Robert is a good friend, and I knew José before I knew you. They would be most hurt. Besides, marriage is like a wet sponge. It wipes clean the slate. You need not, you know, dance all the time.”
“Dance?”
“Have I forgotten again? We are to have supper that night at Le Parapluie. The big room has been engaged. I tell you, it will be festive. A little below us, perhaps, but we must descend, my dear. It behoves us to descend. Their feelings must not be hurt.”
Madeleine paled.
Once before she had subscribed to festivity under the shelter of Le Parapluie. The revels had haunted her ever since. . . .
She was about to protest—beg to be excused—when she remembered her letter. Mercifully, this seemed to have escaped notice—so far. It occurred to her that pleasant, bright conversation might save it inviolate. Desperately she strove to keep the ball rolling. . . .