“You seem to have an unlimited supply of casual young men acquaintances,” came from across the table in a voice that weirdly reminded Joy of Mrs. Grey’s chill blue eyes.
“Grant, what a silly attitude to take!” she exploded. “There are nineteen years in which you have not known me. It certainly would be strange if in that time I had met no other men——”
She realized just that fatal fraction of an inch too late, that she had said the wrong thing, and stopped, leaving the appeal in mid air, where it stayed. His face had queerly altered, and the air tingled with silence.
“Let’s go,” he said finally, in an even tone; “that is, if you do not care to eat any more.”
She had eaten practically nothing throughout the dinner; but it was so different from the day when they had both lost their appetites!
As they came through the dining room, Joy collided with a showily-dressed woman who was entering with a large, greasy-looking man. There had been sufficient room for them both to pass, but Joy’s mind had been far away. The woman drew back and raised a monocle upon her.
“Oh—it is one of Madame Géry’s models!” rolled out an unforgettably doughy voice. “How fortunate—will you tell Madame Géry, my dear, that I am coming Saturday instead of to-morrow?”
Joy nodded and made her escape, walking swiftly, battling an insane desire to shriek with laughter and startle the inmates of the Copley out of their stodgy repose. Grant kept his silence on ice as they left the hotel and he signaled for a taxi. When he helped her into the machine that finally drew up, Joy burst forth with the hysterical giggles she had been fighting.
“Will you please stop laughing long enough to tell me your address?” Grant asked, in the same tone with which he told the driver where to go, when she gasped out the number. What nonsense—Grant knew her address. Everything was getting to be nonsense—
They rode for some minutes with no sound but Joy’s laughter. Grant spoke at last. “Did I hear right? Did that—that woman say you were—a model? Is that true, Joy?”