“I’m looking for my husband,” said Mrs. Gibbons. She dashed from one doorway to another, peering in. “No, he isn’t here—perhaps in the other room—I don’t see him here either. It’s very strange, very!”
“What is it Madame desires?” The head waiter was following her rushing movements.
“I’m looking for my husband”—in full torrent of explanation her tone had grown louder. “He came here a little while ago.” She paused, suddenly aware of a whisper sibilating around.
“She’s looking for her husband.” Several people stopped eating. The head waiter regarded her suspiciously.
“Was Monsieur alone?”
“No, oh, no!” said Mrs. Gibbons with eager candour. “No, indeed! There was a lady——”
“Aa—h!” said the head waiter. “Monsieur was with another lady!” An embarrassing murmur of interest made itself felt. He fixed her with a placating eye, as he added, hurriedly, “But Monsieur, as Madame perceives, is not here. He exists not. If the carriage of Madame”—he stopped happily—“But behold now the friends of Madame!”
The wild blaze of happiness died down almost as suddenly as it had risen in Mrs. Gibbons’ breast, as she turned to see the Worthingtons advancing decorously once more to her rescue. Her bright hopes were buried in ashes.
“Oh, I don’t know what to do,” she breathed. “He isn’t here after all—he isn’t here!”
“Will you not go on with us to the opera?” asked Mrs. Worthington. “We would be very glad to have you. We did not care to get in for the first act.”