“Good-night,’ he said with a mechanical smile.

“G-good-night,” said Peel-Swynnerton, trying to force the tone of fellowship and not succeeding.  Their intimacy, which had sprung up like a mushroom, suddenly fell into dust.  Peel-Swynnerton’s unspoken comment to Mr. Mardon’s back was:  “Ass!” Still, the sum of Peel-Swynnerton’s knowledge had indubitably been increased during the evening.  And the hour was yet early.  Half-past ten!  The Folies-Marigny, with its beautiful architecture and its crowds of white toilettes, and its frothing of champagne and of beer, and its musicians in tight red coats, was just beginning to be alive—­ and at a distance of scarcely a stone’s-throw!  Peel-Swynnerton pictured the terraced, glittering hall, which had been the prime origin of his exceeding foolishness.  And he pictured all the other resorts, great and small, garlanded with white lanterns, in the Champs Elysees; and the sombre aisles of the Champs Elysees where mysterious pale figures walked troublingly under the shade of trees, while snatches of wild song or absurd brassy music floated up from the resorts and restaurants.  He wanted to go out and spend those fifty francs that remained in his pocket.  After all, why not telegraph to England for more money?  “Oh, damn it!” he said savagely, and stretched his arms and got up.  The Lounge was very small, gloomy and dreary.

One brilliant incandescent light burned in the hall, crudely illuminating the wicker fauteuils, a corded trunk with a blue-and-red label on it, a Fitzroy barometer, a map of Paris, a coloured poster of the Compagnie Transatlantique, and the mahogany retreat of the hall-portress.  In that retreat was not only the hall-portress—­an aged woman with a white cap above her wrinkled pink face—­but the mistress of the establishment.  They were murmuring together softly; they seemed to be well disposed to one another.  The portress was respectful, but the mistress was respectful also.  The hall, with its one light tranquilly burning, was bathed in an honest calm, the calm of a day’s work accomplished, of gradual relaxation from tension, of growing expectation of repose.  In its simplicity it affected Peel-Swynnerton as a medicine tonic for nerves might have affected him.  In that hall, though exterior nocturnal life was but just stirring into activity, it seemed that the middle of the night had come, and that these two women alone watched in a mansion full of sleepers.  And all the recitals which Peel-Swynnerton and Mr. Mardon had exchanged sank to the level of pitiably foolish gossip.  Peel-Swynnerton felt that his duty to the house was to retire to bed.  He felt, too, that he could not leave the house without saying that he was going out, and that he lacked the courage deliberately to tell these two women that he was going out—­at that time of night!  He dropped into one of the chairs and made a second attempt to peruse The Referee.  Useless!  Either his mind was outside in the Champs Elysees, or his gaze would wander surreptitiously to the figure of Mrs. Scales.  He could not well distinguish her face because it was in the shadow of the mahogany.