On a corner of their table lay a smeared copy of a theatrical journal. It caught Sophy’s eye and after poring over the page she looked up with an excited exclamation.
“They’re giving Oedipe tomorrow afternoon at the Français! I suppose you’ve seen it heaps and heaps of times?”
He smiled back at her. “You must see it too. We’ll go tomorrow.”
She sighed at his suggestion, but without discarding it. “How can I? The last train for Joigny leaves at four.”
“But you don’t know yet that your friends will want you.”
“I shall know tomorrow early. I asked Mrs. Farlow to telegraph as soon as she got my letter.” A twinge of compunction shot through Darrow. Her words recalled to him that on their return to the hotel after luncheon she had given him her letter to post, and that he had never thought of it again. No doubt it was still in the pocket of the coat he had taken off when he dressed for dinner. In his perturbation he pushed back his chair, and the movement made her look up at him.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Only—you know I don’t fancy that letter can have caught this afternoon’s post.”
“Not caught it? Why not?”
“Why, I’m afraid it will have been too late.” He bent his head to light another cigarette.