In its
simplicity it affected Peel-Swynnerton as a medicine tonic for
nerves might have affected him. In that hall, though exterior
nocturnal life was but just stirring into activity, it seemed that
the middle of the night had come, and that these two women alone
watched in a mansion full of sleepers. And all the recitals which
Peel-Swynnerton and Mr. Mardon had exchanged sank to the level of
pitiably foolish gossip. Peel-Swynnerton felt that his duty to the
house was to retire to bed. He felt, too, that he could not leave
the house without saying that he was going out, and that he lacked
the courage deliberately to tell these two women that he was going
out--at that time of night! He dropped into one of the chairs and
made a second attempt to peruse The Referee. Useless! Either his
mind was outside in the Champs Elysees, or his gaze would wander
surreptitiously to the figure of Mrs. Scales. He could not well
distinguish her face because it was in the shadow of the mahogany.
Then the portress came forth from her box, and, slightly bent,
sped actively across the hall, smiling pleasantly at the guest as
she passed him, and disappeared up the stairs. The mistress was
alone in the retreat.
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