She opened the salon door softly, closed it softly, stepped into the centre of the large, magnificently appointed room, whose decorations and remodelling she and her father had planned; and, calmly unbuttoning her long glove, stood looking around her. And then her fingers held quite rigidly on a glove button. She had not seen him as she had entered! Jean was rising from a divan behind her, near the door. Her arm, still extended, the other hand still on the glove button, she turned her head and shoulders like a statue on a pivot, to watch him in amazement. Without a word, he had stepped swiftly to the door, locked it—and now he was putting the key in his pocket.
"Jean, what are you doing?" she exclaimed sharply.
He laughed a little—in a low way. It was the first sound he had made. She stared at him, a thrill upon her that she could not quite define—it was not fear; it was more an uncomfortable disquiet, in which surprise and bewilderment were dominant. But now, as he faced her, she noticed that the same high colour was in his cheeks, the same nervous brilliancy was in his eyes as had been there the night before—and he was not even dressed, he who was so punctilious in the late afternoons in that regard. It was as though he might have but thrown aside his big sculptor's over-dress, for he was in loose white shirt with flowing tie, and belted trousers. Usually she liked him like that; it seemed to accentuate, bring out, unfetter the splendid physique of the man; but now—she shrugged her shoulders with well-affected composure. Myrna Bliss was too self-poised to be swept from her feet by any situation. Jean was acting very strangely! What was the matter with him? She stripped off her gloves coolly, and tossed her outer wraps on a chair.
"You have been working long hours to-day perhaps, Jean"—her voice expressed cold disapproval—"you are not dressed yet."
Jean's hand swept the great shocks of hair back from his forehead, and again he laughed in the same low way.
"I have not been working to-day. I have been waiting—for five o'clock."
What did he mean? She was genuinely disturbed now. Had he been drinking—after the reception—through the night—and since? He was certainly not himself! It was outrageous, if it were not in fun, that he had locked the door! She walked across the room to the bell-cord and pulled it. The bell rang clamorously in the concierge's apartment below.
"I will have Hector prepare some coffee, while you are upstairs dressing, Jean," she said imperiously. "Now, go and dress. You are behaving in a most peculiar manner."
He made no answer—only stood there looking at her, his head thrown back on his powerful shoulders, his eyes still abnormally bright, though the flush was receding now from the strong, handsome face, that, as it grew white, grew very set. Where was Hector? She pulled the cord again. Again the bell jangled in the concierge's below.
"Hector and Madame Mi-mi, his wife, are on a holiday—with five francs apiece in their pockets—at the Bois, I think—to celebrate last night"—he jerked out the words in a colourless, even way.