Mrs. Romayne smiled as she spoke; her husband’s “shocking habits” apparently sat very lightly on her; in fact, there was something singularly disengaged and impersonal in her manner of speaking of him, altogether. Her visitor received her smile with a pretty little unmeaning laugh, and went on with much superficial eagerness:
“He may, perhaps, be up in time for our expedition, though! We thought of starting in about two hours’ time. They say the place is perfectly beautiful at this time of year. Perhaps you know it.”
“No,” returned Mrs. Romayne. “Oddly enough I have never been to Nice before. I have often talked of wintering here, but I have always eventually gone somewhere else! Are you here for the first time?” she added, turning to the young man, whom she had received as Mr. Allan, and who evidently occupied the position of mutual acquaintance between herself and her other visitors. He was answering her in the affirmative when Lord Cloughton struck in with a cheery laugh.
“He’s been here two days, and he has come to the conclusion that Nice is a beastly hole, Mrs. Romayne!” he said. “This afternoon’s expedition is really a device on our part for cheering him up. He let himself be persuaded into putting some money into a new bank, and the new bank has smashed. Have you seen the papers? Now, Allan hasn’t lost much, fortunately; it isn’t that that weighs upon him. But he is oppressed by a sense of his own imbecility, aren’t you, old fellow?”
The young man laughed, freely enough.
“Perhaps I am,” he said. “So would you be, Cloughton, wouldn’t he, Mrs. Romayne? And don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same, because any fellow would, in my place. However, if Mrs. Romayne is more likely to join us this afternoon if the proceedings are presented to her in the light of a charity, I’m quite willing to pose as an object! Take pity on me, Mrs. Romayne, do!”
“I shan’t pity you,” answered Mrs. Romayne lightly. “You don’t seem to me to be much depressed, and your misfortunes appear to be of your own making. But I shall be delighted to go with you this afternoon,” she continued, turning to Lady Cloughton. “And I feel sure that Mr. Romayne will also be delighted.”
“That is quite charming of you!” exclaimed Lady Cloughton, rising as she spoke. “Well, then, I think if we were to call for you—yes, we will call for you in two hours from now. So glad you can come! The little boy quite well? So glad. In two hours, then! Au revoir.”
There was a flutter of departure, a chorus of bright, meaningless, last words, and Mrs. Romayne stood at the head of the great staircase, waving her hand in farewell as her visitors, with a last backward glance and parting smiles and gestures, disappeared from view. She stood a moment watching some people in the hall below, whose appearance had struck her at dinner on the previous evening, and as she looked idly at them she saw a man come in—an Englishman, evidently just off a journey, and “not a gentleman” as she decided absently—and go up to a waiter who was standing in the dining-room doorway. The Englishman evidently asked a question and then another and another, and finally the waiter glanced up the stairs to where Mrs. Romayne stood carelessly watching, and obviously pointed her out to his interlocutor, asking a question in his turn. The Englishman, after looking quickly in Mrs. Romayne’s direction, shook his head in answer and walked into the dining-room.
With a vague feeling of surprise and curiosity Mrs. Romayne turned and moved away. She retraced her steps, evidently intending to go upstairs, but as she passed the open door of the drawing-room she hesitated; her eyes caught by the bright prospect visible through the open windows which looked out over the public gardens and the blue Mediterranean; her ears caught by the sounds from the band still playing outside. She re-entered the room, crossed to the window and stood there, looking out with inattentive pleasure, the dialogue she had witnessed in the hall quite forgotten as she thought of her own affairs. She thought of the immediate prospects of the next few weeks; wholly satisfactory prospects they were, to judge from her expression. She thought of the letters she had received that morning, mentally answering the invitations she had received. She thought of the acquaintances who had just left her, and of the engagement she had made for that afternoon; and then, as if the necessity for seeing her husband on the subject had by this means become freshly present to her, she turned away from the window and went out of the room and up the staircase. On her way she chanced to glance down into the hall and noticed the Englishman to whom the waiter had pointed her out, leaning in a reposeful and eminently stationary attitude against the entrance. She would ask who he was, she resolved idly. She went on until she came to a door at the end of a long corridor, outside which stood a dainty little pair of walking shoes and a pair of man’s boots. She glanced at them and lifted her eyebrows slightly—a characteristic gesture—and then opened the door.