What wrong opinions one can form of people! Elsie Magnac was charming. They became friends at once. She joined their party. They danced and drank together.
Towards one o'clock they found themselves, all three, on the Place Pigalle. The open air smote them. The carriages were half asleep; the luminous signs were becoming lethargic.
"I will drive you home," said Madame Magnac.
The car slid down the slopes of Montmartre, whitened by the snows of cocaine, through the streets lit up like a harbour in that feast of electricity punctuated by the spasmodic nervous jerkings of sky signs. Russian cabarets faced Argentine ranches, Moorish cafés and Brazilian dives stood opposite Caucasian cellars and Chinese restaurants. Occasionally, overwhelmed by this cosmopolitan glut, a gaunt scared Frenchman stole along.
Irene was seated between Madame Magnac and Lewis. She was conscious of them looking at each other behind her back, and uttering soundless words to each other. When Madame Magnac left them they went up to their rooms. Irene faltered and almost collapsed. She felt herself spinning like a Dervish: Lewis seemed to be all round her. She no longer had the strength to resist some force, some sequence of events which followed each other inevitably. She wanted to say to her husband: "Don't leave me, I feel so ill at ease, so wretched this evening." But he seemed so overwrought, so anxious to leave her that her courage failed her.
With a soft grace and supreme awkwardness she threw herself at his knees:
"I hate that woman! Swear that you will never see Madame Magnac again!"
Lewis reassured her with feline callousness.
"Of course not, if you don't want me to."
She threw her arms passionately round him.