I replied judiciously that whoever selected it for that purpose should anticipate the supper hour by early occupation. I added that it was my intention to pass the intervening time in the smoking room—alone.
She declared that I smoked too much. In Edith’s absence, she supposed, it was her duty, etc. Supper was at twelve o’clock; eleven-thirty seemed to be about the right hour to resume occupation of the bower.
Mrs. “Ted” saw us coming to her, and waited. Margery presented me. Mrs. “Ted” was properly grave. She remarked that she had had the honor of knowing the gentleman so long that sometimes she forgot to put the “Mister” before his name. It was a contagious habit, she had observed.
I withdrew. Mrs. “Ted’s” variety is infinite, and I was afraid she would forget—promises.
In the smoking room I got a corner to myself. But, not for long. Three men came and sat down near by; and, in company with long glasses filled with ice and other things, told stories. Most of these were of people of whom I knew nothing. But the mention of one name caught my attention. It was “Stoughton Page.” It appeared that he had met with an accident early in the evening. His automobile had broken down on the way to meet the seven-fifty train, and he had footed it to the railroad station, only to find that whoever he was to meet there had not come down. He had crawled back to the club, and somebody called “Bobbie” had towed him to his home.
As I flung away my cigar and left the smoking room, I was more than’ ever of the opinion that Mrs. “Ted’s” conclusions upon the instrumentality of coincidence had excellent premises. But I was wary of another meeting with that lady, and so it wanted only a few minutes of twelve when my maneuvers brought me, unnoticed, I hoped, to the bower of my seeking. Only to find it empty. Nor was my search of the floor rewarded by a glimpse of the lavender gown. It was at this point that I began to call myself names, and it must have been that I spoke one of them aloud. If not, then mental telepathy had a remarkable demonstration.
“I would hardly call you a ‘fool,’ Mr. Page,” said a laughing voice just behind me. “But, really, you are just a little shortsighted, aren’t you?”
“I am sure I have been looking everywhere,” I answered, reproachfully.
“For how long, and for whom?” she inquired.
“Let us discuss it in the bower,” I suggested.