There were flowers everywhere in the dining-room; table, buffet, curtains, lustres were gay with early blossoms, exhaling the haunting scent of spring.
“Do you like it, Dulcie?” he whispered.
She merely turned and looked at him, quite unable to speak, and he laughed at her brilliant eyes and flushed cheeks, and, dropping his right hand, squeezed hers.
“It’s your party, Sweetness—all yours! You must have a good time every minute!” And he turned, still smiling, to Thessalie Dunois on his left:
“It’s quite wonderful, Thessa, to have you here—to be actually seated beside you at my own table. I shall not let you slip away from me again, you enchanting ghost!—and leave me with a dislocated heart.”
“Garry, that sounds almost sentimental. We’re not, you know.”
“How do I know? You never gave me a chance to be sentimental.”
She laughed mirthlessly:
“Never gave you a chance? And our brief but headlong career together, monsieur? What was it but a continuous cataract of chances?”