“I see! I’m sorry, madam. Put my foot in it, eh?” He lowered his voice. “I’ll make it eight hundred a week—see?”
She nodded, but William had turned a white face toward them, and she fled lightly, following him in his hasty stride through the now crowded dining-room. She had caught her wraps up hastily and thrown them about her shoulders, and the chiffon frills framed her small, pointed chin.
The diners—belated motorists and traveling salesmen—stared delightedly. The scene was as plain as a charade, the angry young husband and the lovely, coquettish, frivolous young wife. Fanchon caught whispers of admiration and glances of sympathy. At another moment they would have pleased her, would have appealed to every instinct of her light, admiration-loving nature, but to-night she saw some one ahead, some one whom she must pass, and she was thinking, thinking hard and fast, her heart beating pitifully under the splendor of her dancing dress.
Meanwhile William stalked ahead, with his square jaw set and his eyes stormy. He wanted to wring Bernstein’s neck and he could not. It made his hands clench and unclench nervously at his sides.
As they neared the door, a tall man rose from a crowded table and greeted Fanchon in French with an effusion that made William halt. Corwin caught his eye and bowed.
“Present me to your husband,” he said to Fanchon.
She turned with that delicate grace which made her small figure seem so light and buoyant. She had rallied all her forces, all her will. She smiled, her eyes shining dangerously.
“William, this is my old friend, Mr. Corwin.”
William shook hands stiffly.
“We’re just going,” he said shortly. “Good night!”