“An’ me fur Strathbungo. Eh, man, they got us oot, but it took a score o’ them tae dae it. An’ by Goad! we laft oor mark on every mither’s son.”
CHAPTER THREE
TEMPTATION
1.
HUGH continued to be haunted by thoughts of Mrs. Belmire. At times he felt he would throw up everything to follow her; at others he consigned her to the devil. He had resolved to let her make the first advance and carefully avoided meeting her.
One day on returning home, Margot handed him an envelope bearing the initials M. B. He was not altogether pleased and put it in his pocket until he should be alone. He tore it open later and read:
“How could I be so horrid to you the last time we met? Can you forgive me enough to meet me this evening at Ciro’s at ten o’clock? It will probably be adieu. I am leaving for Vichy on Friday.”
The humility of the note touched him. She had put herself in the wrong. Nothing like a show of indifference with women, he thought. His vanity was flattered. A sentiment of generosity akin to tenderness glowed in him. Quite eagerly he awaited the evening.
She arrived a little late, wearing a very exquisite evening gown. She rightly believed that her shoulders and arms added to her charm. She took his hand in a firm, good-fellow grip. As she sat down he was conscious of the perfume she affected. She seemed to him to be stunning, the real thing, a femme de luxe.
Her manner was subdued to the point of mournfulness. It was one of her favourite moods and was in harmony with the melancholy of the restaurant. The orchestra played dispiritedly. Two teams of professional dancers shimmied in a forlorn fashion. Even the waiters looked listless.
“This place will be closing soon,” she sighed. “Monte is dying. All the right sort have gone already. I feel almost like a derelict. I’m bored to the verge of tears. For God’s sake do something to console me. Buy me a bottle of Cliquot.”