“You are very good, but we are not fit for dining out. Isola looks half dead with fatigue,” answered Disney. “Once more, good night.”
He shook hands with husband and wife and hurried Isola to the door.
“Be sure you come to me the first thing to-morrow,” said Gwendolen to her sister. “I shall stay in till you come, and I can drive you anywhere you want to go for your shopping—Stores, Lewis and Allanby’s—anywhere. I want to show you my drawing-room. I have changed everything in it. You’ll hardly know it again.”
She and her husband followed the departing guests to the hall, saw them get into the little brougham and drive off into the night; and then Gwendolen put her arm through her husband’s with a soft clinging affectionateness, as of a Persian cat, that knew when it was well housed and taken good care of.
“Poor Isa! how awfully ill she looks,” sighed Gwendolen.
“Ghastly. Are all women alike, I wonder, Gwen?”
“I think you ought to know what kind of woman I am by this time,” retorted his wife, tossing up her head.
Martin Disney and his wife were alone in their sitting-room at the hotel, somewhat bare and unhomelike, as hotel rooms must always be, despite the march of civilization which has introduced certain improvements. He had made a pretence of dining in the coffee-room below, and she had taken some tea and toast beside the fire; and now at ten o’clock they were sitting on each side of the hearth, face to face, pale and thoughtful, and strangely silent.