The End of Her Honeymoon | Page 7

for it would have been
dreadful for Jack, an artist, to marry an ugly woman....
Locking her box she went out onto the shallow staircase, down the few
steps which led straight under the big arch of the porte cochère. It was
thrown hospitably open on to the narrow street now full of movement,
colour, and sound. But in vivid contrast to the moving panorama
presented by the busy, lane-like thoroughfare outside, was the spacious,
stone-paved courtyard of the hotel, made gay with orange trees in huge
green tubs. Almost opposite the porte cochère was another arch through
which she could see a glimpse of the cool, shady garden Jack
remembered.
Yes, it was a strangely picturesque and charming old house, this Hôtel
Saint Ange; but even so Nancy felt a little lost, a little strange, standing
there under the porte cochère. Then she saw that painted up on a glass
door just opposite the stairs leading to her room was the word "Bureau":
it was doubtless there that Jack had left word when he would be back.
She went across and opened the door, but to her surprise there was no
one in the little office; she hadn't, however, long to wait, for Madame
Poulain's nephew suddenly appeared from the courtyard.
He had on an apron; there was a broom in his hand, and as he came
towards her, walking very, very slowly, there came over Nancy
Dampier, she could not have told you why, a touch of repulsion from
the slovenly youth.
"I wish to know," she said, "whether my husband left any message for
me?"
But the young man shook his head. He shuffled first on one foot and
then on the other, looking miserably awkward. It was plain that he did

not know more than a word or two of English.
"I am sure," she said, speaking slowly and very distinctly, "that my
husband left some kind of message with your uncle or aunt. Will you
please ask one of them to speak to me?"
He nodded. "Si, mademoiselle" and walked quickly away, back into the
courtyard.
"Mademoiselle" again! What an extraordinary hotel, and what bad
manners these people had! And yet again and again Jack had compared
English and French hotels--always to the disadvantage of the former.
Long minutes went by, and Nancy began to feel vexed and angry. Then
there fell on her listening ears a phrase uttered very clearly in Madame
Poulain's resonant voice: "C'est ton tour maintenant! Vas-y, mon ami!"
And before she had time to try and puzzle out the sense of the words,
she saw Monsieur Poulain's portly figure emerge from the left side of
the courtyard, and then--when he caught sight of the slim, blue-clad
figure standing under his porte cochère--beat a hasty retreat.
Nancy's sense of discomfort and indignation grew. What did these
people mean by treating her like this? She longed with a painful, almost
a sick longing for her husband's return. It must be very nearly eleven
o'clock. Why did he stay away so long?
A painful, choking feeling--one she had very, very seldom experienced
during the course of her short, prosperous life, came into her throat.
Angrily she dashed away two tears from her eyes.
This was a horrid hotel! The Poulains were hateful people! Jack had
made a mistake--how could he have brought her to such a place? She
would tell him when he came back that he must take her away now, at
once, to some ordinary, nice hotel, where the people knew English, and
where they treated their guests with ordinary civility.

And then there shot through Nancy Dampier a feeling of quick relief,
for, walking across the courtyard, evidently on their way out, came a
pleasant-looking elderly gentleman, accompanied by the girl whom
Nancy had seen for a brief moment standing on the landing close to her
bedroom door the night before.
These were English people? No, American of course! But that was
quite as good, for they, thank heaven! spoke English. She could ask
them to be her interpreters with those extraordinary Poulains. Jack
wouldn't mind her doing that. Why, he might have left quite an
important message for her!
She took a step forward, and the strangers stopped. The old
gentleman--Nancy called him in her own mind an old gentleman,
though Senator Burton was by no means old in his own estimation or in
that of his contemporaries--smiled a very pleasant, genial smile.
Nancy Dampier made a charming vision as she stood under the arch of
the porte cochère, her slender, blue-clad figure silhouetted against the
dark background by the street outside, and the colour coming and going
in her face.
"May I speak to you a moment?" she said shyly.
"Why certainly."
The American took off his hat, and stood