For here they were. The stars were twinkling, the waves were murmuring, the lady was waiting. It was true her sister and Bletchworth were in the way, but even allowing for their presence this should mean emotion. Where was it? On the terrace while he made small talk, and on the Plage when they strolled back, and as he smoked his last cigar that night in the garden, the question in Conrad's mind was insistently "Where is the emotion?"
Because she was still an attractive woman, and he perceived it. He was even making love to her—to her, to Mrs. Adaile!—and she was not adamant. What had happened to him? Where were his transports, the spiritual whirlwinds, where was everything that he had travelled to recover?
She had a whim to do fancy work in the salon next day during the hour when the women changed their déjeuner dresses for the five-o'clock-to-seven costumes. He had met her as she was passing his door—their rooms were in the same passage—and they had gone downstairs together.
"You've told me nothing of your life since we used to know each other," he said, playing with a thimble.
"What would you like me to tell you?"
"You used to tell me a good deal—if I am privileged to remember it."
"I'm afraid I did. How I must have bored you! It was rather a shame. But I was in my egotistical stage, and you listened with such big eyes—Con."
"Thank you," said Conrad. "But I wasn't bored. And you weren't an egotist—you were the sweetest woman I've ever met. I was awfully sorry for you—so sorry! Only a cub's sympathy, but you've had none truer from anyone."
"You were a nice boy—I've thought about you sometimes. Are the scissors there? Do look."
"If a woman knows when she is really loved, you should have thought about me very often," he answered, giving them to her. "Are you happier than you were?"