"No. I've been away--I only got back last night." Waythorn felt himself
reddening in anticipation of the other's smile.
"Ah--yes; to be sure. And Sellers's attack came on two days ago. I'm
afraid he's pretty bad. Very awkward for me, as it happens, because he
was just putting through a rather important thing for me."
"Ah?" Waythorn wondered vaguely since when Varick had been dealing in
"important things." Hitherto he had dabbled only in the shallow pools
of speculation, with which Waythorn's office did not usually concern
itself.
It occurred to him that Varick might be talking at random, to relieve
the strain of their propinquity. That strain was becoming momentarily
more apparent to Waythorn, and when, at Cortlandt Street, he caught
sight of an acquaintance, and had a sudden vision of the picture he and
Varick must present to an initiated eye, he jumped up with a muttered
excuse.
"I hope you'll find Sellers better," said Varick civilly, and he
stammered back: "If I can be of any use to you--" and let the departing
crowd sweep him to the platform.
At his office he heard that Sellers was in fact ill with the gout, and
would probably not be able to leave the house for some weeks.
"I'm sorry it should have happened so, Mr. Waythorn," the senior clerk
said with affable significance. "Mr. Sellers was very much upset at the
idea of giving you such a lot of extra work just now."
"Oh, that's no matter," said Waythorn hastily. He secretly welcomed the
pressure of additional business, and was glad to think that, when the
day's work was over, he would have to call at his partner's on the way
home.
He was late for luncheon, and turned in at the nearest restaurant
instead of going to his club. The place was full, and the waiter
hurried him to the back of the room to capture the only vacant table.
In the cloud of cigar-smoke Waythorn did not at once distinguish his
neighbors; but presently, looking about him, he saw Varick seated a few
feet off. This time, luckily, they were too far apart for conversation,
and Varick, who faced another way, had probably not even seen him; but
there was an irony in their renewed nearness.
Varick was said to be fond of good living, and as Waythorn sat
despatching his hurried luncheon he looked across half enviously at the
other's leisurely degustation of his meal. When Waythorn first saw him
he had been helping himself with critical deliberation to a bit of
Camembert at the ideal point of liquefaction, and now, the cheese
removed, he was just pouring his _cafe double_ from its little
two-storied earthen pot. He poured slowly, his ruddy profile bent above
the task, and one beringed white hand steadying the lid of the
coffee-pot; then he stretched his other hand to the decanter of cognac
at his elbow, filled a liqueur-glass, took a tentative sip, and poured
the brandy into his coffee-cup.
Waythorn watched him in a kind of fascination. What was he thinking
of--only of the flavor of the coffee and the liqueur? Had the morning's
meeting left no more trace in his thoughts than on his face? Had his
wife so completely passed out of his life that even this odd encounter
with her present husband, within a week after her remarriage, was no
more than an incident in his day? And as Waythorn mused, another idea
struck him: had Haskett ever met Varick as Varick and he had just met?
The recollection of Haskett perturbed him, and he rose and left the
restaurant, taking a circuitous way out to escape the placid irony of
Varick's nod.
It was after seven when Waythorn reached home. He thought the footman
who opened the door looked at him oddly.
"How is Miss Lily?" he asked in haste.
"Doing very well, sir. A gentleman--"
"Tell Barlow to put off dinner for half an hour," Waythorn cut him off,
hurrying upstairs.
He went straight to his room and dressed without seeing his wife. When
he reached the drawing-room she was there, fresh and radiant. Lily's
day had been good; the doctor was not coming back that evening.
At dinner Waythorn told her of Sellers's illness and of the resulting
complications. She listened sympathetically, adjuring him not to let
himself be overworked, and asking vague feminine questions about the
routine of the office. Then she gave him the chronicle of Lily's day;
quoted the nurse and doctor, and told him who had called to inquire. He
had never seen her more serene and unruffled. It struck him, with a
curious pang, that she was very happy in being with him, so happy that
she found a childish pleasure in rehearsing the trivial incidents of
her day.
After dinner they went to the library, and the servant put the coffee
and liqueurs on a low table before her and left the room. She looked
singularly soft and girlish in her rosy pale dress, against the dark
leather of one of his bachelor armchairs. A day earlier the contrast
would have charmed him.
He turned away now, choosing a cigar with affected deliberation.
"Did Haskett come?" he asked, with his back to her.
"Oh, yes--he came."
"You didn't see him, of course?"