The concierge gasped. "The husband! Name of a name!"
But seeing that he was already mounting the stairs, paying no attention whatever to her virtuous horror, the French-woman followed him on tiptoe, murmuring to herself, "Mais comme c'est chic, ça!" She had her racial taste for the spectacular.
At first she was somewhat disappointed. Applying alternately eye and ear to the keyhole, she detected none of the imprecations, the excited chatter, the nose-tweaking, the calling down of the just wrath of Heaven, which the occasion seemed to demand.
"Ah bah, these English!" she muttered scornfully, "If but my Henri were to discover me in such a situation—la, la!"
Philip, entering without knocking, had begun quietly and methodically to remove his coat before Channing was aware of his presence. The author looked up from his desk, surprised, and jumped to his feet, with an expression of pleasure in his face. Philip's brain registered that fact without attempting to explain it. Channing was undoubtedly glad to see him.
"Why, Benoix! Where have you dropped from? I did not hear you knock! What in the name of all that's pleasant brings you to Paris?"
He advanced with outstretched hand. Just at that moment, a woman entered from the room beyond.
Philip, bracing himself, turned to face his wife....
But it was not Jacqueline. It was a Titian-haired, lissome young woman upon whom he had never laid eyes before, and who returned his stare with self-possessed interest.
Philip gave a great gasp. "Channing! Who—who is this woman?"