“Perfectly. How stupid it must be for you!”
“I'm doing very well. The maid will soon be ready. What shall I order for supper?”
“Anything. I'm starving.”
Whatever visions K. Le Moyne may have had of a chill or of a feverish cold were dispelled by that.
“The moon has arrived, as per specifications. Shall we eat on the terrace?”
“I have never eaten on a terrace in my life. I'd love it.”
“I think your shoes have shrunk.”
“Flatterer!” She laughed. “Go away and order supper. And I can see fresh lettuce. Shall we have a salad?”
K. Le Moyne assured her through the door that he would order a salad, and prepared to descend.
But he stood for a moment in front of the closed door, for the mere sound of her moving, beyond it. Things had gone very far with the Pages' roomer that day in the country; not so far as they were to go, but far enough to let him see on the brink of what misery he stood.