“She was speaking it very fluently half-an-hour ago with the grand Anglais who is drinking himself tipsy in the buffet.”
“With Geradine—that beast! Bon Dieu, she said the very sight of him revolted her!”
“She will probably find the contents of his pocketbook less revolting, my credulous young friend. Une femme de moeurs légères, or I’m very much mistaken.”
And listening to the cynical laugh that followed, Marny wondered bitterly what more of shame and humiliation was yet in store for her. At the first mention of her husband she had been startled into a quick involuntary movement but a strong arm had held her back in her seat and cool, steady fingers had closed warningly over her ice-cold hands. Wrestling with her own misery, she was scarcely conscious of Lemaire’s furious protest or of the stormy altercation that ensued, and when at last the sound of the men’s angry voices died away as they took their dispute elsewhere it was some time before she realised that her hands still lay in Carew’s firm grasp. She disengaged them silently. There was nothing to say, nothing that either of them could say. They had overheard what was not intended for them to hear. And the Austrian’s insinuations were very likely true. Geradine had spoken more than once of the beautiful Viennese who had recently dawned on Algiers society with no introductions but with an audacity of manner that had served her amply instead. That his acquaintance had probably developed into a more intimate relationship was no matter for surprise to the wife who was fully aware of his flagrant infidelities. It was only one more insult added to the many indignities he had put upon her, one more humiliation to bear—and ignore.
But if she was to retain any kind of hold over herself she must end at once the brief companionship that had given her so much happiness. The proximity of the man beside her, the sense of his unspoken sympathy, the sudden realisation of the sensuous appeal of her surroundings with its dim obscurity and intoxicating odour of languorous-scented flowers was filling her with an overwhelming fear of herself. She dared not stay with him, dared not give way to the emotion which, growing momentarily greater, seemed to be robbing her of all strength. The exalted feeling that before had made her glad that only she should suffer was weakening in the natural, human longing for the love that would never be hers. If she could but tell him, could feel if only for once the clasp of his arms around her, the touch of his lips on hers! She shivered. What was she thinking—what shameless thing had she become? And trembling with the very madness of her own wild thoughts she rose quickly to her feet, her face coldly set, her voice tuned to level indifference.
“I am quite rested now, Sir Gervas. Shall we go back to the ballroom?” Moving away as she spoke she gave him no option but to follow her, and an incoming stream of people put a period to anything but trivial speech between them.
In the central hall, crowded so as to make progress almost an impossibility, an artillery colonel caught at Carew’s arm in passing. “When you have time, mon cher,” he said hurriedly. “His Excellency is asking for you. He is in the White Salon with Sanois and the chief of the Ben Ezra.”
Marny glanced contritely at her escort. How long since he had taken her out of the crowded ballroom, how long had she trespassed on his time?
“I am afraid I have monopolised you very selfishly,” she murmured shyly, “You must have so many friends.”
But her faltering words seemed to be lost in the din of voices, for he made no answer and his attention appeared to be wholly engaged in fending from her the jostling press which surged around them. And five minutes later he had left her with the British Consul’s wife and was retracing his steps to join the informal conference that was taking place in the White Salon.