There was an awkward silence, which Claudia broke by saying, with a glance at her husband: “But if the exhibition is to remain open to-morrow, could we not meet you there? And perhaps you could send word to some of our friends.”
Mrs. Davant brightened like a child whose broken toy is glued together. “Oh, do make him!” she implored. “I’ll ask them to come in the afternoon—we’ll make it into a little tea—a five o’clock. I’ll send word at once to everybody!” She gathered up her beruffled boa and sunshade, settling her plumage like a reassured bird. “It will be too lovely!” she ended in a self-consoling murmur.
But in the doorway a new doubt assailed her. “You won’t fail me?” she said, turning plaintively to Keniston. “You’ll make him come, Mrs. Keniston?”
“I’ll bring him!” Claudia promised.
IV
When, the next morning, she appeared equipped for their customary ramble, her husband surprised her by announcing that he meant to stay at home.
“The fact is I’m rather surfeited,” he said, smiling. “I suppose my appetite isn’t equal to such a plethora. I think I’ll write some letters and join you somewhere later.”
She detected the wish to be alone and responded to it with her usual readiness.
“I shall sink to my proper level and buy a bonnet, then,” she said. “I haven’t had time to take the edge off that appetite.”
They agreed to meet at the Hotel Cluny at mid-day, and she set out alone with a vague sense of relief. Neither she nor Keniston had made any direct reference to Mrs. Davant’s visit; but its effect was implicit in their eagerness to avoid each other.