At this a woman emerged. The light was dim, but I saw that she wore no hat and had on an apron. As she came toward us we advanced. "You wait for madame?" she asked, with the accent of a Frenchwoman. "Yes." "Madame receive your telegram only this afternoon," she said. "All week, she say, she wait to hear. This morning she have receive a telegram from Mr. Woods that say she mus' come to New York. She think you not coming, so she say 'Yes.' Then she receive your message. She don't know where to reach you. She can do nossing. She is desolated! She mus' fly to the train. She is ver' sorry. She hope that maybe the gentlemans will be in Baltimore nex' week? Yes?" "You mean she can't come to-night?" "Yes, monsieur. She cannot. She are fill with regret. She--" "Perhaps," said my companion, recovering, "we can drive her to the train?" The maid, however, did not seem to wish to discuss this point. She shook her head and said: "Madame ver' sorry she cannot come." "But I say," repeated my companion, "that we shall be delighted to drive her to the train if she wishes." "She ver' sorry," persisted the maid negatively. "Oh, I see," he said. "Very well. Please say to her that we are sorry, too." "Yes, monsieur." The maid retired. "I want something to eat," I remarked as we passed down the long furniture-piled passage leading to the street. "So do I. We have that table at Harvey's." "I know; but--" "That's a fact," he put in. "I mentioned her name. We can't very well go there without her." "And all dressed up like a pair of goats." "No." "There's always the hotel." "I don't want to go back there--not now." "Neither do I. Let's make it the Shoreham," I suggested as we emerged upon the street. "All right." Then, looking across the sidewalk, he added: "There's that damned taxi!" "Yes. We'll drive around there in it." "No," said he, "send it away. I don't feel like riding." We walked to the Shoreham. The cafe looked cheerful, as it always does. We ordered an extensive supper. It was good. There were pretty women in the room, but we looked at them with the austere eyes of disillusioned men, and talked cynically of life. I cannot recall any of the things we said, though I remember thinking at the time that both of us were being rather brilliant, in an icy way. I suppose it was mainly about women. That was to be expected. Women, indeed! What were women to us? Nothing! And pretty women, least of all. Ah, pretty women! Pretty women!... Yes, yes! I had ordered fruit to finish off the meal, and I remember that as the dish was set upon the table, it occurred to me that we had made a very pleasant party of it after all. "Do you know," I said, as I helped myself to some hothouse grapes, "I've had a bully evening. It has been fine to sit here and have a party all to ourselves. I'm not so sorry that she did not come!" Then I ate a grape or two. They were very handsome grapes, but they were sour. CHAPTER XVIII THE LEGACY OF HATE