She was cheerful again and busy. The American trunk was to be unpacked and the Herr Doktor's things put away, his shoes in rows, as he liked them, and his shaving materials laid out on the washstand. Then there was a new dress to put on, that she might do him credit at supper.
Stewart's bad humor had returned. He complained of the room and the draft under the balcony door; the light was wrong for shaving. But the truth came out at last and found Marie not unprepared.
“The fact is,” he said, “I'm not going to eat with you to-night, dear. I'm going to the hotel.”
“With the Americans?”
“Yes. I know a chap who went to college with the brother—with the young man you saw.”
Marie glanced down at her gala toilet. Then she began slowly to take off the dress, reaching behind her for a hook he had just fastened and fighting back tears as she struggled with it.
“Now, remember, Marie, I will have no sulking.”
“I am not sulking.”
“Why should you change your clothes?”
“Because the dress was for you. If you are not here I do not wish to wear it.”