“Wonder why the devil I’m buoying up her hopes. Wonder where we’ll be this time tomorrow?”
Clementine Rendall was a wonderful host, and he ordered the most delicious luncheon. He and monsieur, the faultless monsieur, laid their heads together and made decisions over the menu with a deliberation Downing Street might have envied. Monsieur would touch the title of some precious dish with the extreme point of pencil, and Clem would nod or query the suggestion. At last the decision was made, brought up for amendment, and finally approved.
The cooking was incomparable, and Uncle Clem matched his spirits to its perfection. Gradually he drew Eve out, and by the time the last course was set before them she was full of exquisite plans for the things they would buy together. The harmony of the surroundings, the attention, the good food, and the subtle white wine worked a miracle of change. Her eyes softened and took fresh lustre, her cheeks glowed with a gentle colour, and her voice warmed.
Noting these matters Uncle Clem was glad, but feared greatly.
“Now for the shops,” she said.
They had scarcely turned the corner of Piccadilly before he rapped against the glass of the taxi.
“Barrett’s!” he cried; “we mustn’t pass poor old Barrett’s without giving them a look in.”
Next instant they were in those pleasant leather-smelling showrooms, and an attentive assistant was directing their gaze to rows of dressing bags, both great and small.
“Make your choice—mustn’t lose time.”
“Am I really to have one of those bright bottley things?”