"She won't let the luggage go," said Kent hoarsely. "God knows what's come to her—I don't! Perhaps she thinks we were trying to get out more than was arranged; she swears now that she promised nothing. Come on; it's no good waiting. There's a cab at the door, let's go!"
"But—but what shall we do?" faltered the girl. "Humphrey, Baby must have his things; it's impossible to do without them! Oh, this is awful!"
"Awful or not, we must put up with it. For Heaven's sake, let's get out of the damned place as fast as we can! Where were the most important things put?"
"I don't know—they are everywhere," she declared tremulously. "I want the basket when we get in; but afterwards I want the box, and the bedding—I want everything of Baby's. She must be a perfect wretch!"
He seized the basket and the hand-bag, and they descended the stairs, the baby crying loudly, and the tears dripping down the girl's cheeks. Fortunately, the boarders had all gone to see the procession; but madame Garin was still where Kent had left her, and Etienne, and the chambermaid, and the Italian waiter, suppressing a smile, stood watching about the hall. In an agony of shame that seemed as if it would suffocate her, Cynthia slunk past them to the cab, her head bent low over the child, and as the driver opened the door, she fell, rather than sank, on to the seat. Kent made to follow her immediately, but this was not to be. Madame Garin stopped him. She commanded him to display the contents of the bag; and then ensued a scene in which she became a mouthing, shrieking harridan. Remonstrance was futile. Collars, stockings, handkerchiefs, slippers, were wrested from him piece by piece, and flung on the office floor, while she loaded him with abuse, and the servants nudged one another, grinning. Kent clung to the basket like grim death, but the hand-bag, when she threw it back at his feet at last, had been emptied of so much that he dreaded to guess what was left in it. He picked it up without a word, and scurried through the hail, and plunged into the fiacre. Even then the ordeal was not over. As the man mounted to the box, a woman approached with whom they had grown rather friendly in the house, and, seeing Humphrey with the bag, she came to the cab-window and put amiable and maddening questions as to where they were going and when they were coming back. Kent was voiceless, but Cynthia leant forward and replied. In the midst of his misery and abasement, he admired his wife for the composure she contrived to simulate in such a moment.
On reaching the hotel it was necessary to invent some story to account for the absence of luggage, and he remarked as carelessly as possible that it would be delivered on the morrow. He had ordered luncheon to be ready for them; and in the room intended for Cynthia and the boy a fire had been lighted. She flew to the basket, and boiled some oatmeal while Kent endeavoured to soothe the mite, whose meal had been delayed by the disturbance, and who cried as if he would never be pacified any more. When the food was cooked, and something like order was restored, the luncheon was allowed to be brought up, the fillet overdone, and the potatoes hard and stiff. However, after what they had been through, it tasted to them delicious; and emboldened by the thought that there would be no bill for a week, Kent told the waiter to take away the wine that was included and to bring them a bottle of burgundy instead. The wine put heart into them both, and as their fatigue passed, they drew their chairs to one of the windows, and found courage to discuss the situation, while they gazed at the little ornamental garden at the corner of the street.
The baby slept, tucked in the quilt of the high; big bed, and Cynthia said that by-and-by he must be put inside the bed for the night, in the frock that he had on. Every minute revealed some further deficiency. They opened the bag, and they had neither brushes, nor sponges, and but a single comb. Yet she laughed again, for instinctively she realised that she was at the apex of her opportunity—that at such a crisis a wife must be either a solace or an affliction; she realised, that, whatever happened to them during the rest of their lives, there would be moments when he looked back on their experiences in Paris and remembered how she had behaved. As they sat there beside the open window, with the remainder of the bottle of burgundy between them, and a smile forced to her lips, the philistine might have been a bohemian born and bred. Again Kent marvelled silently at her pluck.
By the time the dinner was laid their nerves were almost as equable as their speech. But this renewed calmness received a sudden shock. It was the rule of the proprietress, they were told politely, to ask for a deposit from strangers, and she would be obliged if monsieur Kent would let her have twenty or thirty francs, purely as a matter of form.
Cynthia started painfully, and Kent refastened the paper of his cigarette before he answered.
"Certainly," he said. "Is thirty francs enough? I've only a cheque in my pocket, but tell madame I'll give her the money to-night."