Presently they were seated at a small round table, and Scipio was serving a dainty little dinner. How young they felt! There was no débutante or fledgling youth present to remind them that Time had meddled with their hair and complexions, no elderly persons to claim them as pertaining to middle age. Thorndyke had rarely been more exhilarated in his life. There might be a morrow; nothing was changed by these stray hours of happiness, but still they were hours of happiness. As for Constance, she was radiant with pleasure, and was at no pains to conceal it. Thorndyke, it is true, always found misery and disappointment waiting for him at his lodgings whenever he returned from Constance’s house; but they could not frighten off those occasional sweet hours which bloomed like snowdrops in a barren and frosted field.
One of the first visits that Constance paid was to Annette Crane. As Thorndyke had seen anxiety written all over Crane’s personality, so Constance saw that Annette was not wholly at ease. But she was unaffectedly glad to see Constance, and soon returned the visit. Crane did not accompany her. He was beginning to feel a species of resentment toward Constance. Why, although he had told her of the comforting and sustaining power she had for him, had she chosen to treat him exactly as she treated all other men, except the few whom she chose to favour outrageously? Why, when she showed him any consideration, was Annette the obvious cause? Self-love was beginning to do for Crane what conscience had failed to do—emancipate him from his admiration for a woman other than his wife.
A day or two after reaching Washington, Crane had left a card for Senator Bicknell. When Senator Bicknell returned the visit, Crane, luckily, was not at home, and the Senator paid his call on Annette and enjoyed it very much. He had said to her at leaving:
“Remember, Mrs. Crane, you promised to dine with me many times in Washington, so that I may repeat, as far as possible, that pleasant day at Circleville.”
“I am prepared to fulfil my promise,” replied Annette, smiling, “but I hope you will give me a better dinner than I gave you.”
“More kickshaws, perhaps, but nothing better. My dear lady, you must remember the difference between a gourmand and a gourmet. One, the gourmand, is a crude product, and would prefer my cook. The gourmet, who is a critic by profession, would certainly prefer yours.”
It was arranged that Annette and Crane should dine with the Senator to meet a large party the next week. If Crane should be found to have an engagement, Annette was to notify the Senator.
But he had made none. When he returned from the House that, evening, at six o’clock, Annette told him of the Senator’s visit and invitation, and, as ever since the summer, as soon as Senator Bicknell’s name was mentioned, a look of guilt and shame came upon Crane’s expressive and mobile face. There was, however, no ground for declining, and, besides, had he not agreed to keep on the best possible terms with Senator Bicknell until—until the time came to betray him? And as he would be obliged to meet Senator Bicknell socially many times in the two years he would be plotting against him, Crane had no object in avoiding him now; but in meeting him, Crane had the grace to suffer pain.
On the night of the dinner, Annette, arrayed in her white crêpe, was among the prettiest women present. It was a very large dinner, extremely magnificent, and made up of important persons, but Annette Crane was by no means unobserved or unadmired. Crane was forced to see that. She was placed near to Senator Bicknell, and he paid her a degree of kind attention which would have been flattering to any woman.
When the dinner was over, and the gentlemen were about joining the ladies in the superb Louis Seize drawing-room, Senator Bicknell whispered to Crane as they passed from the Louis Quatorze dining-room, “Remain half an hour after the others leave.”