He recalled her remark in the restaurant, the night they had dined at the "Bon Bourgeois."
"Kind?"--with those eyes!--He shuddered slightly, connecting the pair in his mind.
It sobered him, bringing the best to the surface, and he turned with a very real affection on his handsome face as she opened the door.
But here was a new irresistible Fantine. With bright eyes, she danced toward him, mischief incarnate, her pale face laughing above a peignoir, diaphanous, intimate; showing gleams of silk-shod ankles through the daring draperies.
"You see! I make myself at home ... And now for supper." She laid down a silver tray with a plate and glass and arranged his knives and forks for him.
"Monsieur est servi." She caught up a napkin and threw it gaily over her arm.
"Monsieur will not forget the poor waiter--who--how absurd!--cannot open the wine!" She held out toward him a bottle of champagne.
McTaggart felt suddenly relieved. He entered heartily into the sport.
"What would the poor waiter like for a tip? Furs perhaps, or a motor car?"
"I'll tell you later," she flashed him a glance as he cut the wire and extracted the cork.
"Here's to ... to-night!" He drank it off.
As supper proceeded the desire of adventure drowned all else in McTaggart's mind. A man can only be young once, he told himself, and refilled his glass.
And Fantine seemed to lay aside all thought of to-morrow, to drift content through this golden hour the Gods vouchsafed, ignoring the loom where the Grey Fates spun.
When the last drop of wine was gone and satiety claimed them as willing victims, McTaggart dragged the table back and pulled the sofa near the fire.
"Now--come and talk to me, mon amie--here's a stool for those little feet. You really are a dream to-night!--I never saw you look so ... tempting!"
She lay back against the cushions, watching him stir the coals in the grate.
"Let's sit in the fire light," he suggested, and switched off the electricity.
Behind his back she stole a glance at the clock, and her face fell, then grew thoughtful.
"Another hour," she said to herself, with the odd sensation of a respite.
"What nonsense! You've smoked enough." His voice was masterful and she pouted.
He lit it, somewhat grudgingly, watching the flame of the match spurt and illumine her piquante face in the semi-darkness of the room.