A moment before she had been close beside him, but
now she might as well have been miles away.
V
The fuse of the electric light in the dining room burned out, and
dinner proceeded with only the illumination of the silk-hooded candles.
In the subdued glow Meta Beggs was infinitely attractive. His wife's
place was empty. Miss Beggs had brought apologetic word from Emmy that
she felt too weak to leave her room. A greater degree of comfort
possessed August Turnbull than he had experienced for months. With no
one at the table but the slim woman on the left and himself a positive
geniality radiated from him. He pressed her to have more champagne--he
had ordered that since she preferred it to Rhine wine--urged more
duckling, and ordered the butler to leave the brandy decanter before
them.
She laughed--a rare occurrence--and imitated, for his intense
amusement, Mrs. Frederick Rathe's extreme cutting social manner. He
drank more than he intended, and when he rose his legs were insecure.
He made his way toward Meta Beggs. She stood motionless, her thin lips
like a thread of blood on her tense face.
"What a wife you'd make!" he muttered.
There was a discreet cough at his back, and swinging about he saw a
maid in a white starched cap and high cuffs.
"Excuse me, sir," she said; "Mrs. Turnbull wants to know would you
please come up to her room."
He swayed slightly, glowering at her with a hot face in which a vein
throbbed persistently at his temple.
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