Part 38 (1/2)
Elodie looked incredulous. ”One has always one's _moments perdus._”
”One doesn't marry in odd moments,” said I.
”You and Horace are old bachelors who know nothing at all about it. Tell me. Is she very rich?”
”None of our old families are very rich nowadays,” I replied, rather at a loss to account, save on the score of feminine curiosity, for this examination. If it had not been for her mother who left her a small fortune of a thousand or so a year, Auriol would have been as penniless as her two married sisters. Her brother, Lord Vintrey, once a wastrel subaltern of Household Cavalry, and, after a das.h.i.+ng, redeeming war record, now an expensive Lieutenant-Colonel, ate up all the ready money that Lord Mounts.h.i.+re could screw out of his estates. With Elodie I could not enter into these explanations.
”All the same she is pa.s.sably rich,” Elodie persisted. ”One does not buy a costume like that under five hundred francs.”
The crimson vested and sashed and tarbooshed Algerian negro brought the coffee, and poured out the five cups. We sipped. I noticed Elodie's hand shake.
”If their coffee gets cold, so much the worse.”
Bakkus, who had maintained a discreet silence hitherto, remarked:--
”Unless Andrew's head is particularly thick, he'll get a sunstroke in this blazing sun.”
”That's true,” cried Elodie and, rising with a great sc.r.a.ping of chair, she rushed to the bal.u.s.trade and addressed him shrilly.
”_Mais dis donc Andre, tu veux attraper un coup de soleil?_”
We heard his voice in reply: ”_Nous rentrons_.”
A few moments afterwards they mounted from the lower terrace and came towards us. Lackaday's face was set in one of its tight-lipped expressionless moods. Lady Auriol's cheek was flushed, and though she smiled conventional greeting, her eyes were very serious.
”I am sorry to have put into danger the General's health, madame,” said she in her clear and British French. ”But when two comrades of the Great War meet for the first time, one is forgetful.”
She gave me a little sign rejecting the offered coffee. Lackaday took his cup and drank it off at one gulp. He looked at his wrist watch, the only remaining insignia of the British soldier.
”Time for our tram, Elodie.”
”_C'est vrai?_” He held his wrist towards her. ”_Oui, mon Dieu!
Miladi--_” She funked the difficult ”Lady Auriol.”
”_Au revoir, Madame,_” said Auriol shaking hands.
”_Trop honoree,_” said Elodie, somewhat defiantly. ”_Au revoir, Miladi._” She made an awkward little bow. ”_Et toi,_” she extended a careless left hand to Bakkus.
”I will see you to the lift,” said I.
We walked down the terrace in silence to the _salon_ door just inside which was the lift which took one down some four stories to the street.
Two things were obvious: the perturbation of the simple Lackaday and the jealousy of Elodie.
”_Au revoir, monsieur, et merci,_” she said, with over emphasized politeness, as we stood at the lift gates.
”Good-bye, old chap,” said Lackaday and gripped my hand hard.