Smiling, smiling, she passed from the studio to the bedroom. The room that had witnessed her first weakness; the room that had brought her strength. How infinitely wise had been the conduct of that night! How irrevocably fate had created doubt and dispersed it by inspiration. If she had not twisted her hair about her head—if the little Jacqueline had not entered at the critical moment—if, for that matter, M. Cartel and his friend had not talked late and partaken of bouillon—
She laughed; she wandered round the room, touching, appraising the little familiar trifles associated with that past hour; at last she sat down before her mirror, and there Jacqueline found her ten minutes later, when curiosity could no longer be withheld and she came creeping across the landing for news of the night's doings.
Maxine heard her enter; heard her search the salon and then the studio; finally called to her.
"Jacqueline!"
"Madame!"
The door opened, and Maxine looked round, the smile still upon her lips.
"No soup for me to-night, Jacqueline? Not even tea?"
Jacqueline caught the happy lightness of the tone, and silently nodded her blonde head as she tiptoed into the room.
"Ah, madame has had a banquet of the mind! Madame has no need of my poor food."
Maxine picked up a comb and arranged the tendrils of hair that curled about her temples.