“I perfect my English,” she said.  Tea was finished; they were smoking, the Evening News spread between them over the tea-things.  She articulated with a strong French accent the words of some of the headings.  “Mistair Carlos Smith keeled at the front,” she read out.  “Who is it, that woman there?  She must be celebrated.”

There was a portrait of the illustrious Concepcion, together with some sympathetic remarks about her, remarks conceived very differently from the usual semi-ironic, semi-worshipping journalistic references to the stars of Concepcion’s set.  G.J. answered vaguely.

“I do not like too much these society women.  They are worse than us, and they cost you more.  Ah!  If the truth were known—­” Christine spoke with a queer, restrained, surprising bitterness.  Then she added, softly relenting:  “However, it is sad for her....  Who was he, this monsieur?”

G.J. replied that he was nobody in particular, so far as his knowledge went.

“Ah!  One of those who are husbands of their wives!” said Christine acidly.

The disturbing intuition of women!

A little later he said that he must depart.

“But why?  I feel better.”

“I have a committee.”

“A committee?”

“It is a work of charity—­for the French wounded.”

“Ah!  In that case....  But, beloved!”

“Yes?”

She lowered her voice.

“How dost thou call thyself?”

“Gilbert.”

“Thou knowest—­I have a fancy for thee.”

Her tone was delicious, its sincerity absolutely convincing.

“Too amiable.”

“No, no.  It is true.  Say!  Return.  Return after thy committee.  Take me out to dinner—­some gentle little restaurant, discreet.  There must be many of them in a city like London.  It is a city so romantic.  Oh!  The little corners of London!”

“But—­of course.  I should be enchanted—­”

“Well, then.”

He was standing.  She raised her smiling, seductive face.  She was young—­younger than Concepcion; less battered by the world’s contacts than Concepcion.  She had the inexpressible virtue and power of youth.  He was nearing fifty.  And she, perhaps half his age, had confessed his charm.

“And say!  My Gilbert.  Bring me a few flowers.  I have not been able to go out to-day.  Something very simple.  I detest that one should squander money on flowers for me.”

“Seven-thirty, then!” said he.  “And you will be ready?”

“I shall be very exact.  Thou wilt tell me all that concerns thy committee.  That interests me.  The English are extraordinary.”

Chapter 13

IN COMMITTEE

Within the hotel the glowing Gold Hall, whose Lincrusta Walton panels dated it, was nearly empty.  Of the hundred small round tables only one was occupied; a bald head and a large green hat were almost meeting over the top of this table, but there was nothing on it except an ashtray.  A waiter wandered about amid the thick plushy silence and the stagnant pools of electric light, meditating upon the curse which had befallen the world of hotels.  The red lips beneath the green hat discernibly moved, but no faintest murmur therefrom reached the entrance.  The hot, still place seemed to be enchanted.