“Go along that corridor,” she said to Blaise, when they had exchanged greetings. “To the end door of all. That’s the sun-parlour. You’ll find Jean there. She thought it appropriate”—smiling at him.
Then, as Blaise strode down the corridor indicated, she turned to Nick and asked him with an adorable coquetry why he, too, had come to Beirnfels?
“I’ve heard it is the House of Dreams-Come-True,” replied Nick promptly. “It seemed a likely place in which to find you, most beautiful.”
Claire beamed at him.
“Oh, am I that—really, Nick?”
“Of course you are. The most beautiful in all the world. Claire”—tucking his arm into hers—“tell me, how is the ‘soul-rebuilding’ process getting on? That’s why I came, really, you know, to find out if you had completely finished redecorating your interior?—I can vouch for the outer woman myself”—with an adoring glance at the fluffy ash-blonde hair and pure little Greuze profile.
Claire rubbed her cheek against his sleeve. To a woman who has been for four months limited almost exclusively to the society of one other woman—even though that other woman be her chosen friend—the rough ‘feel’ of a man’s coat-sleeve (more particularly if he should happen to be the man) and the faint fragrance of tobacco which pervades it form an almost delirious combination.
Claire hauled down her flag precipitately.
“I’m ready to go back to England any time now, Nick,” she murmured.
“Are you? Darling! How soon can you be ready? In a week? To-morrow? Next day?”