CHAPTER XXIII
Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon. She went past
three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of
relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. Saren and Kevin lavished compliments upon her
performance that made her blush as Martin looked at her
adoringly, nodding in agreement. She was finally dead, going to Hell. Maggot, whose nerves were more firmly strung, she contented
herself with waving her hand affectionately to her lover, and encouraging him by
her gestures. “Thank Heaven, they are bringing the hors
d’oeuvres. ’
He endured the inevitable scold with patience, saluted Mrs Chalkney’s faded
cheek, and went off to endure the necessary delay with what patience he could
muster. He had not remembered her as looking so
small. He said that his life was boring and stupid without her. ‘Mad as
hatters!’
‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly.
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