Desmond rang the bell.
“Have Mrs. Wheatland’s bag fetched. Here is the ticket, and reserve a room for her,” he said in a tone used to command.
When he saw her enter the dining room he was thrilled.
She was certainly a very beautiful woman, he thought, and after all one must have some fun out of life.
Her evening gown was not lacking in scantiness, and displayed as much of her body as could reasonably be expected in those austere times.
Soon they were deep in the enjoyment of the other’s company, and oblivious of the other guests.
They had much to talk over, for a jealous husband had kept them apart in a most unfeeling fashion. Perhaps that was what had whetted appetite. Two bottles of champagne—for she was fond of a glass of good wine helped to cheer the evening.
By the time bedtime came, he took both her hands in his, and whispered. “And what did you say was the number of your room?”
“I did not say any number, you silly boy,” she answered, showing her fine teeth, “but as a matter of fact it is No. 13.”
“An easy one to remember,” he said lightly, “Good-night,” and he turned to the smoking room for a night-cap.