CONTRASTS
We sat out in the foyer and took our coffee. I did not suggest a visit to any place of entertainment, as I knew it was better for Felicia to retire early, in order that I might pass through the sitting-room to her uncle's room, unheard. The orchestra was playing delightful music; the rooms were thronged with a gay and fashionable crowd. Nevertheless, my companion's spirits, which had been high enough during dinner, now seemed to fail her. More than once during the momentary silence I saw the absent look come into her eyes,—saw her shiver as though she were recalling the little tragedy of a few minutes ago. I had hitherto avoided mentioning it, but I tried now to make light of the matter.
"I spoke to Louis coming out," I remarked. "The man Bartot has only had a slight stroke. With a neck like that, I wonder he has not had it before."
She found no consolation in my words. She only shook her head sadly.
"You do not understand," she said. "It is part of the game. So it goes on, Capitaine Rotherby," she said, looking at me with her sad eyes. "So it will go on to the end."
"Come," I said, "you must not get morbid."
"Morbid," she repeated. "It is not that. It is because I know."
"Do you believe, then," I asked, "that Bartot was poisoned?"
She looked at me as though in surprise. Her eyes were like the eyes of a child.
"I know it!" she answered simply. "There is not any question about it at all."