"Shall I speak to him now?" I thought. Later I wished to God I had, for he passed out of the room and, as the time went by, I realized that he was not coming back again. To make sure I went to the cloak-room in the vestibule. They told me he had gone.
"Damnation!" I exclaimed. The liveried attendants stood there with meaningless faces, powerless to help me. I was powerless to help myself.
For a while I remained there undecided, staring at the door through which he must have passed. He had escaped me. It roused a thousand suspicions in my mind. He feared our meeting. But why? What had happened? I felt sick with the multitude of suggestions that came pouring into my brain. There was only one thing to be done—to speak with Clarissa. Once having brought my determination to that, I went back to my table and called a waiter.
"Give me," said I, "a piece of paper and a pencil."
He brought them to me, standing by me at my direction while I wrote. "Dear Mrs. Fennell," I scribbled—my hands were shaking foolishly—"may I have five minutes' conversation with you if you can spare them after supper? I shall not offend you again as I did before."
"Take this," said I, "to the lady at that table, the lady with the dark hair, and ask for an answer. Say that I do not wish to disturb her while she is with friends."
"I'm sorry, sir," he replied, "but we are not allowed to deliver notes."
"That be damned for a tale!" said I. "What the devil do you mean? Do you want to suggest that I'm trying to force my acquaintance on a lady whom I don't know?"
"I'm sorry, sir—but those are our orders. There's been some unpleasantness on two or three occasions."
I told him to send me the head-waiter. The maître d'hôtel came, rubbing his hands. These foreigners with their genial faces and silky ways! I always see such contempt in their cunning little eyes.