It was because of the restlessness, of course, that he had not got as well as he should have, and he knew that he must, in the stress of feeling that now beset him, look strangely, and he promised her, feeling that he spoke the truth, that now that he had his nurse again complete recovery would be only a matter of days.
"I want you to see our view," he said to her when the porter had carried up her little box and they were left alone in the brocaded and gilded salon that separated their rooms; "I chose this place for the view; it's the loveliest in Lyons, I think."
There was still a little twilight, and standing at the window they looked down at the lighted quai with its double row of lofty plane-trees and across the jade-green Saône at St. Jean, the grey cathedral, and at the beautiful white _archevêché_ glimmering in a soft, dimmed atmosphere that made him think of London.
"There's a horrible modern cathedral up on the hill," he said; "but we don't need to see it. We need only see the river and the _archevêché_ and St. Jean. And in the mornings there's a market below, a mile of it, all under huge mushroom-coloured umbrellas; flowers and cheeses and every kind of country produce. I think you'll like it here."
"I like it very much. I think it's beautiful," said Adrienne. "I like our room, too," and she turned and looked up at the painted ceiling and round at the consoles and mirrors, inlaid tables and richly curved, brocaded chairs. "Isn't it splendid."
"Madame Récamier is said to have lived here," Oldmeadow told her. "And this is said to have been her room."
"And now it's mine," said Adrienne, smiling slightly as though she found the juxtaposition amusing.
Already the stealing sense of deliciousness was breathing over him. The very way in which she said, "our room," was part of it. Even the way in which she said that made him feel the peace, comfort, and charm of a shared life as he had never before felt it. And the sense grew and grew on that first evening.
It was delicious to hear the waiters address her as Madame, and to know that it was his madame they imagined her to be, when he sat opposite to her at their little table in the dining-room. She wore a grey dress now and, with her quiet, her calm glances cast about her, might indeed have been the veritable Madame Oldmeadow inscribed at the _bureau_. If they had the aspect of a devoted, long-mated couple, it was because of her calm. But she would have been as unperturbed, he felt sure, had she been stopping there under her own name instead of his and looked upon as his well-established mistress. Situations would never embarrass her as long as she knew what she was doing with them. That night when she gave him her hand at bedtime she said, looking at him with the affectionate, professional eyes: "I'll come and put you to sleep if you need me; be sure to let me know."