He suddenly felt a hundred years old.  “Ass—­worm—­menagerie!” he anathematized himself.

It was now nine thirty.  At ten forty-five he was to call at the Hotel Pension Beau Soleil, to take Evelyn and Rosemary to the English church.  How could he bear the suspense till then,—­how endure it not to know whether he had ruined the Christmas which was to have been so perfect?

He dashed into his own hotel, wrote five notes one after the other, tearing up each one before it was finished.  It was no good explaining.  If she didn’t understand nothing would make her.  But would she understand?  He knew now why some women said that all men were fools.  They were quite right.

If he had dared, he would have gone to her at once, to be put out of his misery, one way or the other.  But he did not dare; so he waited, until he had persuaded himself that not only his watch, but the hotel clock and the Casino clock must be slow.

Then he started, and suffered five suffocating minutes in the public sitting-room of the Beau Soleil.  It was a hideous room, with abominable flowers sprawling over the wall paper and carpet, and all the windows were shut, but he did not notice these things; nor did he recognise the heavy scent that hung in the air as that which Mademoiselle de Lavalette affected.  The lady of the roses had ceased to exist for him; but, if he had thought of her at all, he would have been glad that he had opened her pink leather bag when it was thin, and shut it up when it was very fat.

At the end of the five minutes, the door opened, and gave to his eyes a vision; Evelyn and Rosemary in their new dresses and new hats.

It was all he could do to keep from crying “Thank Heaven,” and to say a mere “Merry Christmas” instead.

“Wicked, extravagant Boy,” exclaimed Evelyn.  “Do you know, we are most unsuitably dressed?  But we had to put the things on, hadn’t we?  It was wrong of you to buy them, but—­don’t look so terrified—­it was sweet, too; and I know just the feeling that prompted you to do it.  What a dream-Christmas this is going to be.”

And then she and Rosemary thanked him separately, for each individual thing he had given.  It took some time, and they were nearly late for Church, but not quite.

If Mademoiselle de Lavalette had been looking out of her window at a certain moment she would have been exceedingly surprised, not only by the transformation of Madame Clifford and la petite bete from church mice into visions, but still more by the sight of their companion.

But hot rage and cold disappointment had given her a bad night.

She had expected a guest for dinner.  She had put on her prettiest frock, and had forbidden her mother the Comtesse to paint.  She had ordered champagne, an extra entree, and a bunch of flowers for the table.  Yet the guest had neither come nor sent an excuse.  She had stopped in the house all the evening, thinking that he might have been detained by an accident to his automobile; but the hours had dragged on emptily.  Nothing happened except a bad headache, and a quarrel with her mother, who was ungratefully inclined to be sarcastic at her expense.