“Hallo—hold on! When did you
come over? Mrs. Marvell’s dying for the
last news about the old homestead.”
Undine’s smile confirmed the appeal. She
wanted to know how lately Bowen had left New York,
and pressed him to tell her when he had last seen her
boy, how he was looking, and whether Ralph had been
persuaded to go down to Clare’s on Saturdays
and get a little riding and tennis? And dear
Laura—was she well too, and was Paul with
her, or still with his grandmother? They were
all dreadfully bad correspondents, and so was she.
Undine laughingly admitted; and when Ralph had last
written her these questions had still been undecided.
As she smiled up at Bowen he saw her glance stray
to the spot where his companion hovered; and when
the diners rose to move toward the garden for coffee
she said, with a sweet note and a detaining smile:
“Do come with us—I haven’t
half finished.”
Van Degen echoed the request, and Bowen, amused by
Undine’s arts, was presently introducing Chelles,
and joining with him in the party’s transit
to the terrace. The rain had ceased, and under
the clear evening sky the restaurant garden opened
green depths that skilfully hid its narrow boundaries.
Van Degen’s company was large enough to surround
two of the tables on the terrace, and Bowen noted the
skill with which Undine, leaving him to Mrs. Shallum’s
care, contrived to draw Raymond de Chelles to the
other table. Still more noticeable was the effect
of this stratagem on Van Degen, who also found himself
relegated to Mrs. Shallum’s group. Poor
Peter’s state was betrayed by the irascibility
which wreaked itself on a jostling waiter, and found
cause for loud remonstrance in the coldness of the
coffee and the badness of the cigars; and Bowen, with
something more than the curiosity of the looker-on,
wondered whether this were the real clue to Undine’s
conduct. He had always smiled at Mrs. Fairford’s
fears for Ralph’s domestic peace. He thought
Undine too clear-headed to forfeit the advantages of
her marriage; but it now struck him that she might
have had a glimpse of larger opportunities. Bowen,
at the thought, felt the pang of the sociologist over
the individual havoc wrought by every social readjustment:
it had so long been clear to him that poor Ralph was
a survival, and destined, as such, to go down in any
conflict with the rising forces.
Some six weeks later. Undine Marvell stood at
the window smiling down on her recovered Paris.
Her hotel sitting-room had, as usual, been flowered,
cushioned and lamp-shaded into a delusive semblance
of stability; and she had really felt, for the last
few weeks, that the life she was leading there must
be going to last—it seemed so perfect an
answer to all her wants!
