Her self-esteem was at stake. She consoled herself with the thought that all she needed was opportunity, which being offered, she would succeed in her object, by fair means if she could, by other means if she must. She smiled a little as she thought how easily she could have conquered him had she chosen to be less scrupulous in the use of her weapons. She could have won him at "Wake Robin" if some silly Quixotism hadn't steeled her breast against him—more than tat, she knew that in spite of herself she would have won him if it hadn't been for Hermia. Hermia had discovered a remarkable faculty for unconsciously interfering with her affairs. Unconsciously? It seemed so—and yet—
The slipper on the floor tapped more rapidly for a moment and then stopped. Olga rose, her lips parting in a slow smile. It was curious about Hermia—there were moments when Olga had caught herself wondering whether Hermia wasn't more than casually interested in her elusive philosopher. Hermia's decision to follow her to Europe had been made with a suddenness which left her motives open to suspicion. Olga had learned from Georgette, who had got it from Titine, that notes had passed between Hermia and Markham, for Georgette, whatever the indifference of her successes as a hairdresser, had a useful skill at surreptitious investigation. This morning Georgette had received a note from Titine who was in Paris where she had been left by her mistress to do some shopping and to await Hermia's return. Titine had expressed bewilderment at the disappearance of her mistress, who had left Paris in her new machine with the avowed intention of reaching Trouville by night. Georgette had imparted this information to Madame while she was doing her hair in the morning, and as the hours passed Olga found her mind dwelling more insistently on the possible reasons for Hermia's change of plans. Where was she? And who was with her? Olga ran rapidly through her mental list of Hermia's acquaintances and seemed to be able to account for the where-abouts or engagements of all those who might have been her companions.
What if— She started impatiently, walked across the room and looked out into the Duchesse's rose garden. Really, Markham's importance in her scheme of things was getting to be intolerable. It infuriated her that this obsession was warping her judgment to the point of imagining impossibilities. Hermia and Markham? The idea was absurd. And yet somehow it persisted. She turned on her heel and paced the floor of the room rapidly two or three times. She paused for a moment at her dressing-table and then with a quick air of resolution rang for her maid.
"Georgette," she announced, "I shall have no need of you for a day or two. I would like you to go to Paris,"
Georgette smiled demurely, concealing her delight with difficulty. To invite a French maid to go to Paris is like beckoning her within the gates of Paradise.
"Oui, Madame."
"I need two hats, a parasol and some shoes. You are to go at once."
"Bien, Madame."
"You know what I desire?"
"Oh, oui, parfaitement, Madam—a hat for the green afternoon robe and one of white—"