“Oh, I did not know it was so late. Come!”
We made our way out of the hall through the veranda to the entrance. Lady Le Merchant’s carriage, it seemed, was ready and waiting. It was a pouring night. The thaw had begun. The steady downpour promised a cheerful ending to the carnival doings of the Monday and Tuesday; all but a few homeless or persevering wretches had been driven away. We drove away too. I noticed that the “good-night” between Adelaide and von Francius was of the most laconical character. They barely spoke, did not shake hands, and he turned and went to seek his cab before we had all got into the carriage.
Adelaide uttered not a word during our drive home, and I, leaning back, shut my eyes and lived the evening over again. Eugen’s friend had laughed the insidious whisper to scorn. I could not deal so summarily with it; nor could I drive the words of it out of my head. They set themselves to the tune of the waltz, and rang in my ears:
“He is not honest; he is not honorable. It is from shame and disgrace that he is hiding. Ask him if he remembers the 20th of April five years ago.”
The carriage stopped. A sleepy servant let us in. Adelaide, as we went upstairs, drew me into her dressing-room.
“A moment, May. Have you enjoyed yourself?”
“H’m—well—yes and no. And you, Adelaide?”
“I never enjoy myself now,” she replied, very gently. “I am getting used to that, I think.”
She clasped her jeweled hands and stood by the lamp, whose calm light lighted her calm face, showing it wasted and unutterably sad.
Something—a terror, a shrinking as from a strong menacing hand—shook me.