"A bottle of beer—and some Welsh rabbit"—the other ran on, ignoring the taunt. "I'm fed up with Chianti."
He stopped on the word with a little start.
For the first time for many weeks a memory returned to him of his visit to Harley Street and the problem of his "double" heart.
What was it he had laughingly said? (How long ago that day seemed ... The era of Fantine and Cydonia.)
Yes—"porridge" it was, and "Chianti!"
He glanced up at the mantelpiece as Bethune, hearing steps outside, trundled away to give instructions to the bewildered Mario.
"No change?" he heard him say. "All right—I'll see to it."
A face smiled down at McTaggart out of a tarnished silver frame. Cydonia in a big black hat, white furs around her throat—with her childish mouth and wide eyes. He took it down and gazed at it.
Cydonia!—the girl he had loved.
Deliberately he placed the verb in the past tense. For it was true. Nothing of his passion remained, but a mild, wondering affection! Absence and time had achieved the cure. One broken heart at least was mended! And Fantine...? At the name he felt a sudden stab of regret.