Those sweetly indiscreet words, however, had raised a momentary barrier
between us, and we walked on silently to the house, and entered the
brightly lighted hall.
The silver peal of a Chinese tubular gong rang out just when we reached
the veranda, and as Val Beverley and I walked in from the garden,
Madame de Staemer came wheeling through the doorway, closely followed by
Paul Harley. In her the art of the toilette amounted almost to genius,
and she had so successfully concealed all traces of her recent grief
that I wondered if this could have been real.
"My dear Mr. Knox," she cried, "I seem to be fated always to apologize
for other people. The Colonel is truly desolate, but he cannot join us
for dinner. I have already explained to Mr. Harley."
Harley inclined his head sympathetically, and assisted to arrange
Madame in her place.
"The Colonel requests us to smoke a cigar with him after dinner, Knox,"
he said, glancing across to me. "It would seem that troubles never come
singly."
"Ah," Madame shrugged her shoulders, which her low gown left daringly
bare, "they come in flocks, or not at all. But I suppose we should feel
lonely in the world without a few little sorrows, eh, Mr.
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