“The simplest lunch wouldn’t bore me to-day,” said Violet.
“Nor me.”
Violet whistled to the pug and stood for a moment with her head a little on one side looking at him disgustedly.
“You are most astonishingly like Tom,” said Maud; “he looked just like that when he was examining Mr. Manvers’ statuette.”
“And how did Mr. Manvers look when he looked at Tom’s statue?” she asked.
“He looked as the pug looks—rather hurt, but able to do without Tom’s appreciation.”
“How utterly different they must be!”
“All the difference in the world,” said Maud. Then to herself: “One is the man who loves me, the other”—she pulled herself up—“the man I used to love.”
CHAPTER XVI.
May was driving home one afternoon towards the end of June with a sense of great well-being. The baby was thriving as heartily as the fondest mother could wish, and Tom was as lovable as ever. He had got rather tired of going out to dine or dance, and of late had more frequently spent his evenings alone with May. Two days before he saw her opening a note which obviously was an invitation, and before she had read it he said—