The dining-room was very small. Edna’s round mahogany would have almost
filled it. As it was there was but a step or two from the little table
to the kitchen, to the mantel, the small buffet, and the side door that
opened out on the narrow brick-paved yard.
A certain degree of ceremony settled upon them with the announcement of
dinner. There was no return to personalities. Robert related incidents
of his sojourn in Mexico, and Edna talked of events likely to interest
him, which had occurred during his absence. The dinner was of ordinary
quality, except for the few delicacies which she had sent out to
purchase. Old Celestine, with a bandana _tignon_ twisted about her
head, hobbled in and out, taking a personal interest in everything; and
she lingered occasionally to talk patois with Robert, whom she had
known as a boy.
He went out to a neighboring cigar stand to purchase cigarette papers,
and when he came back he found that Celestine had served the black
coffee in the parlor.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have come back,” he said. “When you are tired of
me, tell me to go.”
“You never tire me. You must have forgotten the hours and hours at
Grand Isle in which we grew accustomed to each other and used to being
together.”
“I have forgotten nothing at Grand Isle,” he said, not looking at her,
but rolling a cigarette. His tobacco pouch, which he laid upon the
table, was a fantastic embroidered silk affair, evidently the handiwork
of a woman.
“You used to carry your tobacco in a rubber pouch,” said Edna, picking
up the pouch and examining the needlework.
“Yes; it was lost.”
“Where did you buy this one? In Mexico?”
“It was given to me by a Vera Cruz girl; they are very generous,” he
replied, striking a match and lighting his cigarette.
“They are very handsome, I suppose, those Mexican women; very
picturesque, with their black eyes and their lace scarfs.”
“Some are; others are hideous, just as you find women everywhere.”
“What was she like—the one who gave you the pouch? You must have known
her very well.”
“She was very ordinary. She wasn’t of the slightest importance. I knew
her well enough.”
“Did you visit at her house? Was it interesting? I should like to know
and hear about the people you met, and the impressions they made on
you.”
“There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as the
imprint of an oar upon the water.”
“Was she such a one?”
“It would be ungenerous for me to admit that she was of that order and
kind.” He thrust the pouch back in his pocket, as if to put away the
subject with the trifle which had brought it up.
Arobin dropped in with a message from Mrs. Merriman, to say that the
card party was postponed on account of the illness of one of her
children.
“How do you do, Arobin?” said Robert, rising from the obscurity.
“Oh! Lebrun. To be sure! I heard yesterday you were back. How did they
treat you down in Mexique?”
“Fairly well.”
“But not well enough to keep you there. Stunning girls, though, in
Mexico. I thought I should never get away from Vera Cruz when I was
down there a couple of years ago.”
“Did they embroider slippers and tobacco pouches and hat-bands and
things for you?” asked Edna.
“Oh! my! no! I didn’t get so deep in their regard. I fear they made
more impression on me than I made on them.”
“You were less fortunate than Robert, then.”
“I am always less fortunate than Robert. Has he been imparting tender
confidences?”
“I’ve been imposing myself long enough,” said Robert, rising, and
shaking hands with Edna. “Please convey my regards to Mr. Pontellier
when you write.”
He shook hands with Arobin and went away.
“Fine fellow, that Lebrun,” said Arobin when Robert had gone. “I never
heard you speak of him.”
“I knew him last summer at Grand Isle,” she replied. “Here is that
photograph of yours. Don’t you want it?”
“What do I want with it? Throw it away.” She threw it back on the
table.
“I’m not going to Mrs. Merriman’s,” she said. “If you see her, tell her
so. But perhaps I had better write. I think I shall write now, and say
that I am sorry her child is sick, and tell her not to count on me.”
“It would be a good scheme,” acquiesced Arobin. “I don’t blame you;
stupid lot!”
Edna opened the blotter, and having procured paper and pen, began to
write the note. Arobin lit a cigar and read the evening paper, which he
had in his pocket.
“What is the date?” she asked. He told her.
“Will you mail this for me when you go out?”
“Certainly.” He read to her little bits out of the newspaper, while she
straightened things on the table.
“What do you want to do?” he asked, throwing aside the paper. “Do you
want to go out for a walk or a drive or anything? It would be a fine
night to drive.”
“No; I don’t want to do anything but just be quiet. You go away and
amuse yourself. Don’t stay.”
“I’ll go away if I must; but I shan’t amuse myself. You know that I
only live when I am near you.”
He stood up to bid her good night.
“Is that one of the things you always say to women?”
“I have said it before, but I don’t think I ever came so near meaning
it,” he answered with a smile. There were no warm lights in her eyes;
only a dreamy, absent look.
“Good night. I adore you. Sleep well,” he said, and he kissed her hand
and went away.
She stayed alone in a kind of reverie—a sort of stupor. Step by step
she lived over every instant of the time she had been with Robert after
he had entered Mademoiselle Reisz’s door. She recalled his words, his
looks. How few and meager they had been for her hungry heart! A
vision—a transcendently seductive vision of a Mexican girl arose before
her. She writhed with a jealous pang. She wondered when he would come
back. He had not said he would come back. She had been with him, had
heard his voice and touched his hand. But some way he had seemed nearer
to her off there in Mexico.