The End of Her Honeymoon | Page 9

stood back, courteously, to
allow his daughter's guest to walk through into the small lobby which
led to the delightful suite of rooms which the Burtons always occupied
during their frequent visits to Paris.
Nancy uttered an exclamation of delight as she passed through into the
high-pitched, stately salon, whose windows overlooked one of those
leafy gardens which are still the pride of old Paris. "This is delightful!"
she exclaimed. "Who would ever have thought that they had such
rooms as this in the Hôtel Saint Ange!"
"There are several of these suites," said Daisy Burton pleasantly. "In
fact, a good many French provincial people come up here, year after
year, for the winter."
While Mrs. Dampier and his daughter were exchanging these few
words the Senator remained silent. Then--"Is your brother gone out?"
he said abruptly.
"Yes, father. He went out about half an hour ago. But he said he'd be
back in ample time to take us out to luncheon. He thought we might
like to go to Foyot's to-day."
"So we will. Daisy, my dear--?" He stopped short, and his daughter
looked at him, surprised.
"Yes, father?"
"I'm afraid I must ask you to leave me with this young lady for a few
moments. I have something to say to her which I think it would be as
well that I should say alone."
Nancy got up from the chair on which she had already seated herself,

and fear flashed into her face. "What is it?" she cried apprehensively.
"You're not going to tell me that anything's happened to Jack!"
"No, no," said the Senator quickly, but even as he uttered the two short,
reassuring little words he averted his eyes from Mrs. Dampier's
questioning anxious eyes.
His daughter left the room.
"What is it?" said Nancy again, trying to smile. "What is it, Mr.
Burton?"
And then the Senator, motioning her to a chair, sat down too.
"The Poulains," he said gravely--he was telling himself that he had
never come across so accomplished an actress as this young
Englishwoman was proving herself to be--"the Poulains," he repeated
very distinctly, "declare that you arrived here last night alone. They say
that they did not know, as a matter of fact, that you were married. You
do not seem to have even given them your name."
Nancy stared at him for a moment. Then, "There must be some
extraordinary mistake," she said quietly. "The Poulains must have
thought you meant someone else. My husband and I arrived, of course
together, late last night. At first Madame Poulain said she couldn't take
us in as the hotel was full. But at last she said that they could give us
two small rooms. They knew our name was Dampier, for Jack wrote to
them from Marseilles. He and I were only married three weeks ago: this
is the end of our honeymoon. My husband, who is an artist, is now at
his studio. We're going to move there in a day or two."
She spoke quite simply and straightforwardly, and the Senator felt
oddly relieved by her words.
He tried to remember exactly what had happened, what exactly the
Poulains had said, when he had gone into the big roomy kitchen which
lay to the left of the courtyard.

He had certainly been quite clear. That is, he had explained, in his very
good French, to Madame Poulain, that he came to inquire, on behalf of
a young English lady, whether her husband, a gentleman named
Dampier, had left any message for her. And Madame Poulain, coming
across to him in a rather mysterious manner, had said in a low voice
that she feared the young lady was toquée--i. e., not quite all right in
her head--as, saving Monsieur le Sénateur's presence, English ladies so
often were! At great length she had gone on to explain that the young
lady in question had arrived very late the night before, and that seeing
that she was so young and pretty, and also that she knew so very little
French, they had allowed her, rather than turn her out, to occupy their
own daughter's room, a room they had never, never, under any
circumstances, allowed a client to sleep in before.
Then Madame Poulain had gone out and called Monsieur Poulain; and
the worthy man had confirmed, in every particular, what his wife had
just said--that is, he had explained how they had been knocked up late
last night by a loud ringing at the porte cochère; how they had gone out
to the door, and there, seized with pity for this pretty young English
lady, who apparently knew so very, very little French, they had allowed
her to occupy their daughter's room....
Finally, the good Poulains, separately and in unison, had begged the