Rose kept out. She made herself as busy as she could pouring out tea and handing cake, then she leaned back in her chair and tried to look as if she enjoyed hearing Léon and Madame--what?--you couldn’t call it exactly talk.
That was the difficulty. It was more of a game than a conversation, and a game whose rules Rose had never learnt.
Monsieur Gérard got up after a time, and asked if Madame would excuse him--might he examine the planting of the lemons? He was madly interested in lemons.
Rose gladly excused him. She heard Léon ask Madame Gérard if this statement of her husband’s was true.
“Never in the world!” Madame gaily replied. “He does not know the difference between a lemon and an orange!”
“Then let us,” said Léon, “also go and examine something we do not understand.”
Rose stayed where she was. Something had happened to her little secret lovely garden, it was suddenly vulgarized and spoilt.
The scent of the lemons, delicate and pungent, made her head ache. The pigeons came to her, when the others had gone, and she fed them from the crumbs of her first party. She had always thought it would be so delightful to give a party with Léon, but she had not supposed that the party, as far as she was concerned, would be composed exclusively of pigeons.
CHAPTER VIII
An affair of importance had brought Monsieur Gérard to the Hotel Paradiso. He excused himself to Rose for wishing to consult her husband privately. Rose accepted his excuses sedately and retired to her balcony.