"I've had enough. Help yourself!"
"No, I'm not ravenous either—smoked too much, perhaps. I say, madame doesn't know yet; better tell her."
She was induced to join them presently, and to drink a glass of champagne, enchanted by the invitation. Monsieur Kent was always si gentil. But champagne! Was it that he celebrated already another romance? Comment? he was going to be married—nevare? But yes—to-morrow? Ah, mon Dieu! She rocked herself to and fro, and screamed the intelligence down the dinner-lift to her husband in the kitchen. Alors, they must drink a chartreuse with her—she insisted. Yes, and she would have one of monsieur Kent's cigarettes. To the health of the happy pair!
Outside, the rain was still falling as they left the Restaurant Suisse and tramped to a music-hall. Here their entrance was unfortunately timed. Some good turns appeared earlier in the programme, some good turns figured lower down; but during the half-hour that they remained the monotony of the material that the average music-hall "comedian" regards as humorous struck Kent more forcibly than ever. Wives eloped with the lodgers, or husbands beat their wives and got drunk with "the boys." There seemed nothing else—nothing but conjugal infelicity; it was rang-tang-tang on the one vulgar, discordant note.
"I've had enough of this," he said; "let's go. What time is it?"
"Time for a quiet pipe at home, and then to turn in early. Let's cab it!"
They were glad to take off their wet boots and to find themselves back in their own shabby chairs. But Cornelia had let the fire out, and the dismantled room was chilly. Turquand produced the whisky and the glasses, and, blowing a cloud, they drew up to the cold hearth, remarking that the weather had "turned muggy" and that a fire would have been out of place on such a night.
"It looks bare without my things, doesn't it?" observed Kent. "One wouldn't have believed they made so much difference."
"Yes," assented Turquand.
"You'll have to get some books for that shelf over there, you know—it's awful empty."