By this time Edgar Strong had finished his last piece of cheese and was wiping his lips with his napkin. Then he looked at his watch, and for the second time during the course of the meal spoke.
“Look here, Cosimo, I’ve got to be off presently, and we haven’t settled about those advertisements yet. And there’s something else I want to say to you too. Could we hurry coffee up? Where do we have it? In the studio, I suppose? Or do the others go into the studio and you and Walter and I have ours here?”
“We might as well all go into the studio,” said Cosimo, rising; and they left the sombre room and sought the studio, all except Miss Belchamber, who went upstairs.
The sight of the innumerable cigarette-ends about the asbestos log reminded Walter of Mr. Crabtree again; and for a minute or two—that is to say during the time that Walter, taking her aside, told her of the quiet but penetrating side-light Mr. Crabtree had innocently shed on Mr. Wilkinson’s scheme for some new paper or other that Cosimo was to finance—Amory was once more glad that the Wyrons had come. But the next moment, as Walter loitered away and Laura came and sat softly down beside her, she was sorry again. Laura was gently crying. That struck Amory as stupid. As if she hadn’t enough great troubles of her own, without burdening herself with the Wyrons’ trivial ones!
So, as she had nothing really helpful to say to Laura, she left her, and sat down on the footstool she had occupied on the day when Edgar Strong had said that he liked the casts and had asked her whether she had read something or other—she forgot what.
Edgar was talking in low tones to Cosimo, and Amory thought she heard the name of Mr. Prang. Then Cosimo, who always thought more Imperially with a map before him, got out the large atlas, and the two of them bent over it together. Walter joined them, and, after an interlude that appeared to be about the Lectures’ advertisement, Walter strolled away again and joined Laura. Amory heard an “Eh?” and a moment later the word “touchy,” and Walter went off to the window with his hands in the pockets of his knickers, whistling. Edgar took not the least notice of Amory’s eyes intently fixed upon him. He continued to talk to Cosimo. Walter, who was examining a Japanese print, called over his shoulder, “This a new one, Amory? What is it—Utamaro?” Then he walked up to where Laura sat again. He was speaking in an undertone to her: “Rubbish ... take on like that ... better clear off then”; and a moment later, seeing Edgar Strong buttoning up his coat, he called out, “Wait a minute, Strong—we’re going down too—get your hat, Laura——”
Five minutes later Cosimo Pratt and his wife were alone.
It was the first time they had been so for nearly a fortnight. Indeed, for weeks the departure of the last visitor had been the signal for their own good-night, Cosimo going his way, she hers. There had never been anything even remotely approaching a “scene” to account for this. It had merely happened so.
Therefore, finding himself alone with his wife in the studio again, Cosimo yawned and stretched his arms above his head.
“Ah-h-h!... You going to bed?”