The crowded and
factitious gaiety of the place actually annoyed him. If Elsie April
had been and gone away again, he objected to such silly feminine
conduct. If she was merely late, he equally objected to such
unconscionable inexactitude. He blamed Mr. Marrier. He considered that
he had the right to blame Mr. Marrier because he paid him three pounds
a week. And he very badly wanted his tea.
Then their four eyes, which for forty minutes had scarcely left the
entrance staircase, were rewarded. She came, in furs, gleaming white
kid gloves, gold chains, a gold bag, and a black velvet hat.
"I'm not late, am I?" she said, after the introduction.
"No," they both replied. And they both meant it. For she was like fine
weather. The forty minutes of waiting were forgotten, expunged
from the records of time--just as the memory of a month of rain is
obliterated by one splendid sunny day.
IV
Edward Henry enjoyed the tea, which was bad, to an extraordinary
degree. He became uplifted in the presence of Miss Elsie April;
whereas Mr. Marrier, strangely, drooped to still deeper depths of
unaccustomed inert melancholy. Edward Henry decided that she was every
bit as piquant, challenging and delectable as he had imagined her to
be on the day when he ate an artichoke at the next table to hers at
Wilkins's. She coincided exactly with his remembrance of her,
except that she was now slightly more plump.
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