He acted like a man
suffering from aphasia. He seemed totally oblivious of the immediate
past. They might have been casual friends who had met casually. He was
radiant.
"What luck your being here. I didn't know you went in for frivolity of
this sort--if you call it frivolous dining in solitary state. Come over
and join us. We're just having a bite before the show. You remember
Mademoiselle Labelle, don't you?"
Stonehouse nodded assent. He left his table at once. He seemed frigidly
composed, but he was sure that she would not be deceived. She knew too
much about men--that was her business--and she meant to pay him out, make
him seem crude and absurd in his own eyes.
"It's Stonehouse--my old friend--I was telling you about him--we don't
need to introduce you, Mademoiselle."
She gave him her hand, palm down, to kiss, and he turned it over
deliberately. The fingers were loaded to the knuckles. He reflected
that each of these stones had its history, tragic, comic or merely
sordid. He let her hand drop. He saw that the affront had not touched
her. Perhaps others had begun like that.
"_Ce cher docteur_--'e don't like me," she complained pathetically to
Cosgrave. "'E sit opposite to me and glare like a 'ungry tiger. Believe
me, I grow quite cold with fear. Tell me why you don't like me,
Monsieur?"
"He was only wanting to be asked," Cosgrave broke in with his high,
excited laugh. "Why, he introduced us.
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