In its leisurely progress back to Mentone the train passed through the same scenes as in leaving it, but they had not the same charm. The sun was set, the air chill, the world inclined to be grey.
Everybody, except Miss Boundrish, who gurgled till both Ermengarde and the thin man prayed earnestly to be delivered from the temptation to choke her, was silent. Agatha's face had taken on its deepest expression of sadness; she seemed absorbed in thought too melancholy for words, and weighed by care too heavy for human sufferance. Ermengarde felt smaller, cheaper, and of less account than she had done for years. She would have to go home at least a fortnight earlier than she had intended in consequence of that afternoon's diversion; there would be no margin for pleasant expensive nothings and no gifts for Charlie. And for the first time in a new place Charlie's picture post-cards had been forgotten. The thought of it burnt her cheeks and clouded her eyes. And as for Arthur—well, he had not expressed any very acute anguish at their separation. He was obviously enjoying life as much as possible in that prolonged business excursion of his, to judge by the brevity and infrequency of his letters. Why should men have all the fun?
"You appear to have had a delightful afternoon, Mrs. Allonby," Miss Boundrish's mother said at dinner. "What lovely carnations! Did they come from Monte Carlo?"
"Will you have one, Mrs. Boundrish?" she returned, with a sweet smile, wondering if she were really bound in honour not to give Dorris away.
"And did M. Isidore play too?" was another question from some one across the table, eliciting the frigid reply that Mrs. Allonby knew nothing of M. Isidore's recreations.
"Now tell me in confidence, dear Mrs. Allonby," urged a third persecutor, pursuing her to a corner, into which she had tucked herself cosily, after dinner in the salon. "How much did you lose, and was it very exciting? I hear that M. Isidore makes quite a little income by his average winnings. Of course, he has a system."
There was something in Mrs. Boundrish's allusion to her flowers that fired a train of thought in Mrs. Allonby's mind. Fresh flowers had always appeared on her table before dinner; she had taken them in her inexperience as part of the usual entertainment for man and beast to be expected at hotels, not observing that none were on Agatha's table, and that no charge for flowers appeared in the bills. But these superb Malmaison carnations were obviously not from the Oliviers garden. Moreover, instead of donkey-riding up to the house with the others that afternoon, she had taken the steep, short cut through the lemons and olives, finding the kind assistance of M. Isidore in this ascent most useful in the dusk. Just as they came up into the light of the electric lamp in the grounds by a very steep climb, for which M. Isidore had given her a hand up, that gallant gentleman dropped a large paper cornet he had personally conducted with great care from Monte Carlo. And when Mrs. Allonby stopped its descent into the lemon-trees with her sunshade, it burst open and disclosed a sheaf of Malmaisons, exactly like those found afterwards on her table.
Further, when she went to the office after dinner, she found Mademoiselle Geneviève in charge, smiling and radiant, with a huge sheaf of Malmaisons in her belt and one flower nestling becomingly in her dark hair. M. Isidore, as often happened at that hours sat near her on the sofa, and conversation of a joyous and pleasant nature appeared to be forward. How could Miss Boundrish call this girl plain and frumpish? To-night she was positively handsome in a brilliant Southern style, her face lit with laughter, her great, liquid dark eyes sparkling, her white, even teeth gleaming between full red lips. Her figure was fine in a statuesque way, strong and stately. Mlle. Bontemps was unusually gracious in supplying the information desired until her full, dark eye lit on the Malmaisons in Mrs. Allonby's belt; then her face changed; she turned with a flash of fury and looked at M. Isidore, who looked studiously through the open doorway at nothing at all, while Ermengarde beat a retreat as hasty as was consistent with dignity and a proper Parisian accent. Afterwards, at the first opportunity, she asked the chambermaid whence the flowers on her table came, and heard with misgiving that they were so placed daily by command of M. Isidore.
"So it is the duty of M. Isidore to supply all the dressing-tables with bouquets?" she asked carelessly.
"Mais, Madame," came in deep, contralto remonstrance, "est-ce que tout le monde dépense comme ça pour les fleurs?"