And then, as he seated himself opposite her, old Jenner entered with the hors d’œuvres.
Jean was thankful that the room, shaded as it was, was in half darkness, so that her husband could not see how pale she was. Through the open windows came the scent of flowers borne upon the warm air, and the silence of the room was over everything.
He began to discuss their plans for the autumn.
“Trevor asks us to go a cruise in his yacht up the Adriatic in October,” he said. “I had a letter from him this morning, dated from Stavanger. You remember what a good time we had with him when we went to Algiers and Tunis two years ago.”
“I’ve never been to the Adriatic,” she remarked.
“I went once, about nine years ago, with that financial fellow Pettigrew—the fellow who afterwards met with a fatal accident in a lift at the Grand in Paris. It was delightful. You would be interested in all the little places along the beautiful Dalmatian coast—Zara, where they make the maraschino; Sebenico, Pola, the Bay of Cattaro, and Ragusa, the old city of the Venetian Republic. Shall we accept?”
“It is awfully kind of your brother-in-law,” she replied. “Yes, I’d love to go—if you could get away.”
“I could come overland and join you at Venice or Trieste, and then we could put into Brindisi or Ancona for any urgent despatches. You see, there’s no convenient rail on the Dalmatian side. Yes, I think I could manage it.”
“Then accept by all means. I love the sea, as you know. Where do they sail from?”
“Marseilles. You will join the Marama there. She will then touch at Genoa, Naples, and go through the Straits of Messina, and I’ll join you in the Adriatic.”