They would breakfast cosily there, she had arranged, and nothing was wanting in the setting of a love scene. The bride wore the most alluring cap and daintiest Paris négligé, and her fair and pure skin gleamed through the diaphanous stuff.
How she longed for John to notice it all, and make love to her! She had apprehended a number of delightful possibilities in Paris, none of which had materialised, alas! in her case.
John was the same as ever—quiet, dignified, polite and unmoved. She had taken to turning out the light before he came to her at night, to hide the disappointment and chagrin which she felt might show in her eyes. It would be so humiliating if he should see this. There would soon be nothing left for her to do but pretend that she was as cold as he was, if this last effort of froufrous left him as stolid as usual.
She smoothed out the pale chiffon draperies with a tender hand. She got up and looked at herself in the mirror. It was fortunate that the reflection of snowy nose and throat and chin, and the pink velvet cheeks, required no art to perfect them; it was all natural and quite nice, she felt. What a bore it must be to have to touch up like Madame Boleski!
But what was the meaning of all the imputations she had read of in those interesting French novels in Paris?—the languors and lassitudes and tremors of breakfasting love! There was just such a scene as this in one she had devoured on the boat. A déjeuner of _amants—_certainly they had not been married, there was that want of resemblance, but surely this could not matter? For a fortnight, three weeks, a month, surely even a husband could be as a lover—especially to a mistress who took such pains to please his eye!
Would Elsie Goldmore spend such dull breakfasts when she espoused Harry Kahn? Elsie Goldmore was a Jewess, perhaps that made the difference, perhaps Jews were more expansive—But the people in the novels were not Jews. Of course, though, they were French, that must be it! Could it be that all Englishmen, to their wives, were like John? This she must presently find out.
Meanwhile she would try—oh, try so hard to entice him to be lovely to her! He was her own husband; there was absolutely no harm in doing this. And how glorious it would be to turn him into a lover! Here in this perfectly divine old house! John was so good-looking, too, and had the most attractive deep voice, but heavens! the matter-of-factness of everything about him!
How long would it all go on?
John came in presently with The Times under his arm. He was immaculately dressed in a blue serge suit. Amaryllis had hoped to see him in that subduedly gorgeous dressing gown she had persuaded him to order at Charvets during their first days. It would have been so suitable and intimate and lover-like. But no! there was the blue serge suit—and The Times.
A shadow fell upon her mood. Her own pink chiffons almost seemed out of place!