It was just striking seven when he re-entered the courtyard of the Grand Hotel.  Shirley and Mrs. Blake were waiting for him.  Jefferson suggested having dinner at the Cafe de Paris, but Shirley objected that as the weather was warm it would be more pleasant to dine in the open air, so they finally decided on the Pavilion d’Armonville where there was music and where they could have a little table to themselves in the garden.

They drove up the stately Champs Elysees, past the monumental Arc de Triomphe, and from there down to the Bois.  All were singularly quiet.  Mrs. Blake was worrying about her new gown, Shirley was tired, and Jefferson could not banish from his mind the terrible news he had just read.  He avoided looking at Shirley until the latter noticed it and thought she must have offended him in some way.  She was more sorry than she would have him know, for, with all her apparent coldness, Jefferson was rapidly becoming very indispensable to her happiness.

They dined sumptuously and delightfully with all the luxury of surroundings and all the delights of cooking that the French culinary art can perfect.  A single glass of champagne had put Shirley in high spirits and she had tried hard to communicate some of her good humour to Jefferson who, despite all her efforts, remained quiet and preoccupied.  Finally losing patience she asked him bluntly: 

“Jefferson, what’s the matter with you to-night?  You’ve been sulky as a bear all evening.”

Pleased to see she had not forgotten their compact of the afternoon in regard to his name, Jefferson relaxed somewhat and said apologetically: 

“Excuse me, I’ve been feeling a bit seedy lately.  I think I need another sea voyage.  That’s the only time when I feel really first-class—­when I’m on the water.”

The mention of the sea started Shirley to talk about her future plans.  She wasn’t going back to America until September.  She had arranged to make a stay of three weeks in London and then she would be free.  Some friends of hers from home, a man and his wife who owned a steam yacht, were arranging a trip to the Mediterranean, including a run over to Cairo.  They had asked her and Mrs. Blake to go and she was sure they would ask Jefferson, too.  Would he go?

There was no way out of it.  Jefferson tried to work up some enthusiasm for this yachting trip, which he knew very well could never come off, and it cut him to the heart to see this poor girl joyously making all these preparations and plans, little dreaming of the domestic calamity which at that very moment was hanging over her head.

It was nearly ten o’clock when they had finished.  They sat a little longer listening to the gipsy music, weird and barbaric.  Very pointedly, Shirley remarked: 

“I for one preferred the music this afternoon.”

“Why?” inquired Jefferson, ignoring the petulant note in her voice.

“Because you were more amiable!” she retorted rather crossly.