“My lungs? Oh, nothing wrong with them—actually. Dare say they’ll pull up O.K. once I pull out of this town. Y’know what Paul Bourget said about New York. Fellow asked him how he liked our climate, and he answered, ‘But my dear man,—you do not have climate. You have samples of weather!’”
She laughed and the weight of the air lifted somewhat. The maid brought in a steaming chafing dish, set it on a nest of tables and drew out the smaller two, placing them in front of the couch.
[79]
] Goring moved over, once more took the corner opposite her husband. His eyes traveled the length of her.
“You grow more beautiful every time I see you, Janey. Success is a first rate old alchemist, isn’t it?”
She smiled down, her whole face softening.
The maid laid an embroidered doily of finest linen on each of the two small tables and brought silver platters of creamed mushrooms with a faint aroma of sherry. From a dusty bottle marked Amontillado she poured into slim-necked glasses the same wine, glistening and amber.
When she had finished serving them, she asked tentatively if madame wished her to wait up.
Goring wondered why the question brought from Bob a look of curiosity, why he turned and watched her, waiting; why he smiled—with his eyes this time—when she told the girl to go to bed.
She moved nearer—the tables were placed side by side—and sipped the sherry. A few moments passed during which she noticed uncomfortably that he had not touched the dainty, tempting dish before him.
“You’re not eating?”