Part 33

Good heavens! I had to fly to the rescue. I cried hastily, “Will you be abroad long?”

But she had already forgotten Hennie. I was forgotten, too. She was trying to remember something.... She was miles away.

“I—don’t—know,” she said slowly, from that far place.

“I suppose you prefer it to London. It’s more—more—”

When I didn’t go on she came back and looked at me, very puzzled. “More—?”

“Enfin—gayer,” I cried, waving my cigarette.

But that took a whole cake to consider. Even then, “Oh well, that depends!” was all she could safely say.

Hennie had finished. He was still very warm.

I seized the butterfly list off the table. “I say—what about an ice, Hennie? What about tangerine and ginger? No, something cooler. What about a fresh pineapple cream?”

Hennie strongly approved. The waitress had her eye on us. The order was taken when she looked up from her crumbs.

“Did you say tangerine and ginger? I like ginger. You can bring me one.” And then quickly, “I wish that orchestra wouldn’t play things from the year One. We were dancing to that all last Christmas. It’s too sickening!”

But it was a charming air. Now that I noticed it, it warmed me.

“I think this is rather a nice place, don’t you, Hennie?” I said.

Hennie said: “Ripping!” He meant to say it very low, but it came out very high in a kind of squeak.

Nice? This place? Nice? For the first time she stared about her, trying to see what there was.... She blinked; her lovely eyes wondered. A very good-looking elderly man stared back at her through a monocle on a black ribbon. But him she simply couldn’t see. There was a hole in the air where he was. She looked through and through him.

Finally the little flat spoons lay still on the glass plates. Hennie looked rather exhausted, but she pulled on her white gloves again. She had some trouble with her diamond wrist-watch; it got in her way. She tugged at it—tried to break the stupid little thing—it wouldn’t break. Finally, she had to drag her glove over. I saw, after that, she couldn’t stand this place a moment longer, and, indeed, she jumped up and turned away while I went through the vulgar act of paying for the tea.

And then we were outside again. It had grown dusky. The sky was sprinkled with small stars; the big lamps glowed. While we waited for the car to come up she stood on the step, just as before, twiddling her foot, looking down.

Hennie bounded forward to open the door and she got in and sank back with—oh—such a sigh!

“Tell him,” she gasped, “to drive as fast as he can.”

Hennie grinned at his friend the chauffeur. “Allie veet!” said he. Then he composed himself and sat on the small seat facing us.

The gold powder-box came out again. Again the poor little puff was shaken; again there was that swift, deadly-secret glance between her and the mirror.

We tore through the black-and-gold town like a pair of scissors tearing through brocade. Hennie had great difficulty not to look as though he were hanging on to something.

And when we reached the Casino, of course Mrs. Raddick wasn’t there. There wasn’t a sign of her on the steps—not a sign.

“Will you stay in the car while I go and look?”

But no—she wouldn’t do that. Good heavens, no! Hennie could stay. She couldn’t bear sitting in a car. She’d wait on the steps.

“But I scarcely like to leave you,” I murmured. “I’d very much rather not leave you here.”

At that she threw back her coat; she turned and faced me; her lips parted. “Good heavens—why! I—I don’t mind it a bit. I—I like waiting.” And suddenly her cheeks crimsoned, her eyes grew dark—for a moment I thought she was going to cry. “L—let me, please,” she stammered, in a warm, eager voice. “I like it. I love waiting! Really—really I do! I’m always waiting—in all kinds of places....”

Her dark coat fell open, and her white throat—all her soft young body in the blue dress—was like a flower that is just emerging from its dark bud.