“Cards!” he cried. “Of all wonderful things!”
Cards of Dawson's—Cards, the magnetic, the brilliant, Card with his World and his Society and now slim and dark and romantic as ever, making every one else in the room shabby beside him, so that Bobby's white waistcoat was instantly seen to be hanging loosely above his shirt and Peter's trousers were short, and even the elegant Percival had scarcely covered with perfect equality the ends of his white tie.
Instantly as though the intervening years had never been, Bobby took his second place beside Cards' glory—even Percival's intention of securing the wonderful Mr. Rondel, author of “The Violet's Redemption,” for their table, failed of its effect.
They were enough. They didn't want anybody else—Room for Mr. Cardillac!
And he seized it. Just as he would have seized it years ago at school so he seized it now. Their table was caught into the most dazzling series of adventures. Cards had been everywhere, seen everybody and everything—seen it all, moreover, with the right kind of gaiety, with an appreciation that was intelligent and also humorous. There was humour one moment and pathos the next—deep feeling and the wittiest cynicism.
They were all swung about Europe and with Cards at their head pranced through the cities of the world. Meanwhile Peter fancied that once or twice Clare flung him a little glance of appeal to ask for forgiveness—and once they looked up and smiled at one another. A tiny smile but it meant everything.
“Oh! won't we have a reconciliation afterwards? How could I have said those things? Don't we just love one another?”
When they went upstairs again Peter and Cards exchanged a word:
“You'll come and see us?”
“My dear old man, I should just think so. This is the first time I've been properly in London for years and now I'm going to stay. Fancy you married and successful and here am I still the rolling-stone!”
“You! Why you can do anything!”
