“I’ve stocked up my wine cellar with that in view,” admitted Burnham and stopped to watch some newcomers who had taken possession of the nearest table. “I suppose I can get a room here for the night in case I find the servants haven’t arrived to open our house.”
“My dear Burnham!” Palmer looked actually shocked. “Empty rooms are unheard of in Washington.”
“How about club chambers?”
“Nothing doing; they are even sleeping in the bathtubs there,” laughed Palmer, and stopped speaking as the orchestra in the mezzanine gallery commenced to play and, dinner arriving at that instant, the two men, except for monosyllabic remarks now and then, completed the meal in silence. As Burnham took one of the cigars proffered him he pushed aside his dessert plate, planted his elbows on the table, and leaned forward.
“I can’t understand why people want an orchestra playing while they eat,” he grumbled. “I don’t enjoy having to shout when I talk.”
“Well, I suggested dining at the club——”
“I know, I know; but I forgot about the beastly orchestra,” he paused to puff abstractedly at his cigar.
“What’s the trouble, Burnham?” asked Palmer quickly. “Is your wife ill?”
“No, no; it’s——” He bent nearer his companion, then paused to shoot a glance over his shoulder and his confidences remained unspoken. “Jove! Evelyn!” he ejaculated. “She wasn’t due here until to-morrow.”
Palmer, but half catching his remark, followed his gaze and saw Evelyn Preston and her friend Marian Van Ness just taking their seats at a table some distance away. Palmer pushed back his chair preparatory to rising.