There was little conversation, little gaiety at that dinner. Douglas was absent-minded and gloomy. He scarcely ate anything; but the constant thirst from which he suffered obliged him to drink long draughts of water.
After dinner, Miss Brewer brought the glasses and the liqueur to Madame
Durski, after her customary manner.
Paulina filled the ruby-stemmed glass with curaçoa, and handed it to her lover.
"No, Paulina, I shall take no liqueur to-night."
"Why not, Douglas?"
"I am not well," he replied, "and I am growing rather tired of curaçoa."
"As you please," said Paulina, as she replaced the delicate glass in the stand from which she had just taken it.
Miss Brewer had left the room, and the lovers were alone together. They were seated face to face at the prettily decorated table—one with utter despair in his heart.
"Shall I tell you why I would not take that glass from your hands just now, Paulina Durski?" asked Douglas, after a brief pause, rising to leave the table as he spoke. "Or will you spare me the anguish of speaking words that must cover you with shame?"
"I do not understand you," murmured Paulina, looking at her lover with a gaze of mingled terror and bewilderment.