So they took another taxi down town, to a sedate little tea room that Emily suggested, and after tea he left her at her hotel.
“Thank you, Emily,” he said simply. “I’ve never had a better day.”
Emily, too, was happy. She wanted to rush upstairs and write all about it to Denis. He was always pleased when she spent her time out of doors, and he looked upon walking as a solemn duty. He said that she didn’t walk nearly enough—that no American girls did.
“Mrs. Lanier!” said the desk clerk, as she stopped for her key.
With a cordial smile, he handed her a note. She recognized the handwriting as her mother-in-law’s, and took the envelope with no great pleasure. Nor was she in a hurry to open it. She took off her dusty shoes and her street suit, put on slippers and a mandarin coat, let down her glittering flood of hair, and only then, when she[Pg 165] was lying in comfort on the bed, did she open the thing.
My dear Emily:
I should be very pleased if you would dine with us this evening at half past seven.
Most sincerely yours,
Maude Lanier.
“But that’s the old note!” she cried.
Jumping up, she looked in the desk to see if the other was missing. There it was, and, taking it out, she compared the two. Except for the date, they were exactly alike, word for word. That made her laugh, and laughter gave her courage.