ked up and down for some moments
in silence, then rang the bell for a servant and went out into the hall
to meet him. He ordered the carriage to take him to the station, paused
a moment with his hand on the knob of the door, dismissed the
servant angrily as the latter lingered observing him, re-entered the
drawing-room, resumed his restless walk and at last stopped abruptly
before his wife, who had taken up a book. "May I ask the favour," he
said with evident effort, in spite of a forced smile as of allusion to
a large past exercise of the very best taste, "of having a question
answered?"

"It's a favour I never refused," she replied.

"Very true. Do you expect this evening a visit from Mr. Longmore?"

"Mr. Longmore," said his wife, "has left Saint-Germain." M. de Mauves
waited, but his smile expired. "Mr. Longmore," his wife continued, "has
gone to America."

M. de Mauves took it--a rare thing for him--with confessed, if
momentary, intellectual indigence. But he raised, as it were, the wind.
"Has anything happened?" he asked, "Had he a sudden call?" But his
question received no answer. At the same moment the servant threw open
the door and announced dinner; Madame Clairin rustled in, rubbing her
white hands, Madame de Mauves passed silently into the dining-room,
but he remained outside--outside of more things, clearly, than his mere
salle-a-manger. Before long he went forth to the terrace and continued
his uneasy walk. At the end of a quarter of an hour the servant came to
let him know that his carriage was at the door. "Send it away," he said
without hesitation. "I shan't use it." When the ladies had half-finished
dinner he returned and joined them, with a formal apology to his wife
for his inconsequence.

The dishes were brought back, but he hardly tasted them; he drank on
the other hand more wine than usual. There was little talk, scarcely a
convivial sound save the occasional expressive appreciative "M-m-m!" of
Madame Clairin over the succulence of some dish. Twice this lady saw
her brother's eyes, fixed on her own over his wineglass, put to her a
question she knew she should have to irritate him later on by not being
able to answer. She replied, for the present at least, by an elevation
of the eyebrows that resembled even to her own humour the vain raising
of an umbrella in anticipation of a storm. M. de Mauves was left alone
to finish his wine; he sat over it for more than an hour and let the
darkness gathe