McTaggart felt suddenly relieved. He entered heartily into the sport.
"What would the poor waiter like for a tip? Furs perhaps, or a motor car?"
"I'll tell you later," she flashed him a glance as he cut the wire and extracted the cork.
He poured it foaming in the glasses.
"Here's to ... to-night!" He drank it off.
As supper proceeded the desire of adventure drowned all else in McTaggart's mind. A man can only be young once, he told himself, and refilled his glass.
And Fantine seemed to lay aside all thought of to-morrow, to drift content through this golden hour the Gods vouchsafed, ignoring the loom where the Grey Fates spun.
When the last drop of wine was gone and satiety claimed them as willing victims, McTaggart dragged the table back and pulled the sofa near the fire.
"Now—come and talk to me, mon amie—here's a stool for those little feet. You really are a dream to-night!—I never saw you look so ... tempting!"
She lay back against the cushions, watching him stir the coals in the grate.