At the Meurice, Miss Lane gave strict orders to admit only Mr. Blair to her apartments. She described him. No sooner had she drunk her cup of tea, which Higgins gave her, than she began to expect Dan.
He didn’t come.
Her dinner, without much appetite, she ate alone in her salon; saw a doctor and made him prescribe something for the cough that racked her chest; looked out to the warm, bright gardens of the Tuileries fading into the pallid loveliness of sunset, indifferent to everything in the world—except Dan Blair. She believed she would soon be indifferent to him, too; then everything would be done with. Now she wondered had he really gone—had he done what he threatened? Why didn’t he come? At twelve o’clock that night, as she lay among the cushions of her sofa, dozing, the door of her parlor was pushed in. She sprang up with a cry of delight; but when Poniotowsky came up to her she exclaimed:
“Oh, you!” And the languor and boredom with which she said his name made the prince laugh shortly.
“Yes, I. Who did you think it was?” Cynically and rather cruelly he looked down at Letty Lane and admired the picture she made: small, exquisite, her blond head against the dark velvet of the lounge, her gray eyes intensified by the fatigue under them.
“Just got in from Carlsbad; came directly here. How-de-do? You look, you know—” he scrutinized her through his single eye-glass—“most frightfully seedy.”
“Oh, I’m all right.” She left the sofa, for she wanted to prevent his nearer approach. “Have you had any supper? I’ll call Higgins.”
“No, no, sit down, please, will you? I want to know why you sent to Carlsbad for me? Have you come to your senses?”
He was as mad about the beautiful creature as a man of his temperament could be. Exhausted by excess and bored with life, she charmed and amused him, and in order to have her with him always, to be master of her caprices, he was willing to make any sacrifice.
“Have you sent off that imbecile boy?” And at her look he stopped and shrugged. “You need a rest, my child,” he murmured practically, “you’re neurasthenic and very ill. I’ve wired to have the yacht at Cherbourg—It’ll reach there by noon to-morrow.”