“Perfectly. How stupid it must be for you!”
“I'm doing very well. The maid will soon be ready. What shall I order for supper?”
“Anything. I'm starving.”
Whatever visions K. Le Moyne may have had of a chill or of a feverish cold were dispelled by that.
“The moon has arrived, as per specifications. Shall we eat on the terrace?”
“I have never eaten on a terrace in my life. I'd love it.”
“I think your shoes have shrunk.”
“Flatterer!” She laughed. “Go away and order supper. And I can see fresh lettuce. Shall we have a salad?”
K. Le Moyne assured her through the door that he would order a salad, and prepared to descend.
But he stood for a moment in front of the closed door, for the mere sound of her moving, beyond it. Things had gone very far with the Pages' roomer that day in the country; not so far as they were to go, but far enough to let him see on the brink of what misery he stood.
He could not go away. He had promised her to stay: he was needed. He thought he could have endured seeing her marry Joe, had she cared for the boy. That way, at least, lay safety for her. The boy had fidelity and devotion written large over him. But this new complication—her romantic interest in Wilson, the surgeon's reciprocal interest in her, with what he knew of the man—made him quail.
From the top of the narrow staircase to the foot, and he had lived a year's torment! At the foot, however, he was startled out of his reverie. Joe Drummond stood there waiting for him, his blue eyes recklessly alight.
“You—you dog!” said Joe.
There were people in the hotel parlor. Le Moyne took the frenzied boy by the elbow and led him past the door to the empty porch.
“Now,” he said, “if you will keep your voice down, I'll listen to what you have to say.”
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