She stared, too, at the quiet street, with inveterate dislike of its quietness. She saw the group of loungers in front of the chemist’s, the belated pedestrians at the crossing. There was a glimpse of shadowing trees. Pendent branches swept and swayed before feebly lighted show-windows, where the shades were partly drawn down, and the infrequent street-lamps shot occasional lances of light across their dingy way. One such shaft struck on William’s profile and revealed his tightened lips.
Fanchon wondered. She had not been aware of Mr. Carter’s catapultic exit, and she did not know how much her husband knew. Some one must have telephoned him—whom, she could not conjecture. She shrank away from him a little, thinking, and Corwin’s face rose before her mind’s eye. She saw again the confidence of his smiling, mocking eyes, and she shuddered.
William seemed to feel it and gave her a quick look, but said nothing. The taxi had stopped in front of an old-fashioned inn. It was a long, low building with a glassed-in dining-room, built to accommodate the stream of motorists who had begun to tour the mountains and scatter gold and gasoline in their wake.
Into the new dining-room—a plain, bare place with rows of white-covered tables and a few lean palms on pedestals—William conducted his wife. Half a dozen negro waiters came forward. He selected one he knew, chose a remote table, and gave his order for supper.
“I suppose you want wine?” he said shortly to Fanchon—almost the first words he had addressed to her.
She shrugged, slipping off her wraps and amazing the other diners with the marvels of her costume.
“Mais non,” she replied indifferently. “I’m heated; I never drink wine when I have danced.”
William, who was giving his order, stopped short a moment, his eyes down, and she saw him pant like a man short of breath. But in another moment he had despatched the waiter with his order and drained his glass of water.
“Mon Dieu!” said Fanchon, watching him with dark, mysterious, brooding eyes. “How can you? Iced water—it’s bad for your liver!”
“Drat my liver!” said William hoarsely. Then he leaned across the table, his eyes raised to hers at last and spoke in a low, even voice for her ears alone. “What have you been doing, Fanchon?”