At length he saw that Madame Olenska had risen and was saying good-bye. He understood that in a moment she would be gone, and tried to remember what he had said to her at dinner; but he could not recall a single word they had exchanged.
She went up to May, the rest of the company making a circle about her as she advanced. The two young women clasped hands; then May bent forward and kissed her cousin.
“Certainly our hostess is much the handsomer of the two,” Archer heard Reggie Chivers say in an undertone to young Mrs. Newland; and he remembered Beaufort’s coarse sneer at May’s ineffectual beauty.
A moment later he was in the hall, putting Madame Olenska’s cloak about her shoulders.
Through all his confusion of mind he had held fast to the resolve to say nothing that might startle or disturb her. Convinced that no power could now turn him from his purpose he had found strength to let events shape themselves as they would. But as he followed Madame Olenska into the hall he thought with a sudden hunger of being for a moment alone with her at the door of her carriage.
“Is your carriage here?” he asked; and at that moment Mrs. van der Luyden, who was being majestically inserted into her sables, said gently: “We are driving dear Ellen home.”
Archer’s heart gave a jerk, and Madame Olenska, clasping her cloak and fan with one hand, held out the other to him. “Good-bye,” she said.
“Good-bye—but I shall see you soon in Paris,” he answered aloud—it seemed to him that he had shouted it.
“Oh,” she murmured, “if you and May could come—!”
Mr. van der Luyden advanced to give her his arm, and Archer turned to Mrs. van der Luyden. For a moment, in the billowy darkness inside the big landau, he caught the dim oval of a face, eyes shining steadily— and she was gone.
As he went up the steps he crossed Lawrence Lefferts coming down with his wife. Lefferts caught his host by the sleeve, drawing back to let Gertrude pass.
“I say, old chap: do you mind just letting it be understood that I’m dining with you at the club tomorrow night? Thanks so much, you old brick! Good-night.”
“It did go off beautifully, didn’t it?” May questioned from the threshold of the library.
Archer roused himself with a start. As soon as the last carriage had driven away, he had come up to the library and shut himself in, with the hope that his wife, who still lingered below, would go straight to her room. But there she stood, pale and drawn, yet radiating the factitious energy of one who has passed beyond fatigue.
“May I come and talk it over?” she asked.
“Of course, if you like. But you must be awfully sleepy—”
“No, I’m not sleepy. I should like to sit with you a little.”
“Very well,” he said, pushing her chair near the fire.
She sat down and he resumed his seat; but neither spoke for a long time. At length Archer began abruptly: “Since you’re not tired, and want to talk, there’s something I must tell you. I tried to the other night—.”