him. He
sauntered over to the news stand, stared at the display of
periodicals, but had not sufficient interest to buy even an evening
paper.
So he idled about the marble-columned lobby, now crowded with a
typical early-autumn throng in quest of dinner and the various
nocturnal amusements which the city offers at all times to the
frequenters of its thousand temples.
Rue came out of the ladies' dressing room, and he went to her and
guided her into the dining-room on the left, where an orchestra was
playing. In her blue, provincial travelling gown the slender girl
looked oddly out of place amid lace and jewels and the delicate tints
of frail evening gowns, but her cheeks were bright with colour and her
grey eyes brilliant, and the lights touched her thick chestnut hair
with a ruddy glory, so that more than one man turned to watch her
pass, and the idly contemptuous indifference of more than one woman
ended at her neck and chin.
What Rue ate she never afterward remembered. It was all merely a
succession of delicious sensations for the palate, for the eye, for
the ear when the excellent orchestra was playing some gay overture
from one of the newer musical comedies or comic operas.
Brandes at times seemed to shake off a growing depression and rouse
himself to talk to her, even jest with her. He smoked cigarettes
occasionally during dinner, a thing he seldom did, and, when coffee
was served, he lighted one of his large cigars.
Rue, excited under an almost childishly timid manner, leaned on the
table with both elbows and linked fingers, listening, watching
everything with an almost breathless intelligence which strove to
comprehend.
People left; others arrived; the music continued. Several times people
passing caught Brandes' eye, and bowed and smiled. He either
acknowledged such salutes with a slight and almost surly nod, or
ignored them altogether.
One of his short, heavy arms lay carelessly along the back of his
chair, where he was sitting sideways looking at the people in the
lobby--watching with that same odd sensation of foreboding of which he
had been conscious from the first moment he had entered the city
line.
What reason for apprehension he had he could not understand. Only an
hour lay between him and the seclusion of the big liner; a few hours
and he and this girl beside him would be at sea.
Once he excused himself, went out to the desk, and made an inquiry.
But there was no telephone or tele
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