“Anyway you admit that his morality is higher.”
“Not at all. His wife very obviously cannot elope with a chauffeur, because there’s no chauffeur to elope with. In fact, she may already be married to him.”
They both laid down their forks and laughed.
“You’ve aroused a tremendous appetite in me for Château Yquem,” said Meadows mischievously. And Hamilton ordered a bottle, after the waiter had assured him that the oldest bottle in Paris lay in the wine cellar of the Black Cat.
“After a swallow I may learn to appreciate your point of view better,” she said.
“There’s no pleasanter way of learning that I know of.”
Hamilton watched Meadows lift the glass to her lips, her dark eyes sparkling as brightly as the yellow wine. He had never noticed how charmingly her lips were curved before. A ridiculous idea came into his mind and he promptly dismissed it. Certainly he was not falling in love with her. This was merely companionship—intellectual companionship. And, of course, there was Margaret, to whom he was engaged and whom he really loved. Meadows made a little face, whether it was expressive of dislike or of coquetry Hamilton was not certain.
“Boo!” said Meadows, setting it down. “I’m afraid I’ll have to remain a plain American bourgeoise.”
“You couldn’t do that,” Hamilton made a mock bow, supposed to be imitative of the restaurant proprietor. “You couldn’t, even if you did remain a bourgeoise.”
“You’re perfectly horrible today, Colonel!” Meadows laughed. Over his wine and pastry he watched the changing expressions in her face. Were her eyes actually larger than Margaret’s? There was a resemblance between them. Meadows seemed more cosmopolitan, yet hardly less girlish. He watched the high lights in her hair, where the sun fell on it through the window. Then her lips again. They were very much like Margaret’s. He wondered whether she would go out with other officers after he was gone. Probably, he decided. And would he ever see her again? He imagined Margaret meeting Meadows and perhaps thanking her. He was conscious of her voice going on and it soothed him in a strange way. Vaguely it made him feel as though he were with Margaret. This, he reasoned with himself, was no treachery. Meadows was simply a medium for the expression of a certain mood. She represented Margaret.