“They look terribly wicked,” Hattie said hopefully. “I declare, I don’t know what possessed me to fix up like this and come here. I don’t know what Robert will think. Everyone smoking and drinking and carrying-on.” Her eyes avoided meeting Sonia’s, though her quick glance flickered over the cigarette and tall glass.
“I ’spect we had ought to order something,” Mr. Simpson said unhappily. “This waiter feller keeps hanging ’round like he’s waiting for us to.”
“Why I... I suppose maybe we should... but I don’t know...” Hattie’s voice broke off in tremulous indecision.
“Pardon me,” Sonia spoke impulsively. She was surprised to hear the words issue from her mouth. “Won’t you be my guests?” she asked. “Please. Let me order something.”
Mr. Simpson stared at her mournfully while Hattie started, and looked at Sonia in dismay.
“That’s right nice,” Mr. Simpson said heavily. “But I don’t think we had ought to...”
“Nonsense!” Sonia interrupted him imperiously. She gestured to the waiter and pointed to her own glass... holding up two fingers. He smiled and departed.
Sonia planted her elbows on the table and studied Hattie and Mr. Simpson through a cloud of smoke. She was lovely, and she had a way with her.
“Let me do this,” she begged prettily. “I was so lonesome, sitting here all alone. It’s no fun being by oneself on Mardi Gras evening.”
“But you’re a perfect stranger,” Hattie said accusingly. She tried not to look at Sonia’s carmined lips and heavily rouged cheeks.
“I’ll fix that,” Sonia told her calmly. “I’m Miss Jenson. Sonia Jenson.”
“Sonia? That sounds furrin,” Hattie snapped.
“It’s uh right purty name,” Mr. Simpson protested weakly. “My name’s Simpson, Miss... and let me introduce you to Miss Hattie... uh... Miss Hattie...”
“Sutler!” Hattie supplied the name severely. “It seems a loose way of doing, but I ’spose it’s all a part and parcel of this carnival nonsense.” Her nose wriggled in a devil-may-care manner.
“Of course,” Sonia said soothingly. “Informality is one of the nicest things about Mardi Gras.” As she spoke she wondered what on earth had prompted her to speak to this strange couple. But they were pathetic, she reminded herself, and it might be amusing to watch them enter into the spirit of Mardi Gras.
The waiter brought their drinks just then and set two champagne cocktails before them. Sonia lifted her own glass high.
“Here’s to us,” she said gayly.
Mr. Simpson tasted his drink, hesitated, took another sip, blinked his eyes and gulped, then tipped the glass and drank heartily.
Hattie sniffed at her glass suspiciously. Wrinkled her nose, sniffed again, and tasted it.
She set the glass down in alarm and lifted her shoulders portentously. “Liquor!” she said sharply. “Ugh! Mr. Simpson! There’s alcohol in that drink!”
“Oh!” He set his glass down resignedly and peered at Hattie in mild surprise. “Tastes right nice,” he protested.
“It won’t hurt you,” Sonia gurgled. “It’s just a champagne cocktail.”
“Champagne?” Hattie bristled. The very word was suggestive of wicked excess. “I’ll have you to know, young lady, that a drop of liquor will never pass my lips.”
“That’s foolish,” Sonia protested. “That’s a part of Mardi Gras. Just like putting on a costume.”
“Humph.” Hattie sniffed three times and her nose wriggled furiously. “Why I’d... I’d... I’d as soon commit adultery as drink that vile concoction.” Her lips were set in a thin line.
“Well, I guess so.” Sonia shrugged elaborately. “Who wouldn’t?”
Several moments passed before Hattie understood the awful construction Sonia had put upon her words. Then her face flamed scarlet, and she gurgled helplessly. Mr. Simpson looked away in shame-faced silence as Sonia leaned forward cheerfully.
“I’m sorry,” she laughed. “I’m being a rotten hostess. Forgive me.” She patted Hattie’s arm. Mr. Simpson took advantage of the diversion to drink surreptitiously from his glass.
“Never have I been so insulted,” Cousin Hattie stated wildly. “Never!”
“Don’t be angry,” Sonia said soothingly. “It just slipped out. Look. I’ll send this sinful cocktail back and have them bring you both some punch. They have a wonderful recipe here that’s known all over the south.”
“There’s no... no liquor in it?” Hattie questioned suspiciously.
“Oh no,” Sonia assured her in a shocked voice. “It’s made out of absinthe, and grenadine, and vermouth, and Bacardi, and... oh, things like that. Really a wonderful tasting punch. They call it Dervish Delight.”
“Very well then,” Hattie said haughtily. “If you’re sure there’s no alcohol in it.”
“Of course not,” Sonia laughed. She beckoned the waiter again. “Take away these nasty cocktails,” she said coldly. “And bring us a pitcher of Dervish Delight. Be sure there’s plenty of ice in it.” She settled back with a sigh as he gathered up their glasses. “You must forgive me,” she said plaintively. “I do want you both to like me.” She looked at them wistfully from beneath long dark lashes.
Hattie softened visibly while Mr. Simpson beamed.
“Of course,” Hattie said graciously. “I don’t want you to think we don’t appreciate your kindness.”
“Here we are,” Sonia said happily as a frosted pitcher was set on the table, and three sparkling glasses deposited before her.
The punch was a deep ruby, and triangles of unpeeled orange floated on the top.
“It looks lovely,” Hattie conceded as Sonia poured three glasses.
“It tastes better than that,” Sonia assured her. She watched Hattie furtively as she lifted the glass to her lips, trusting the exotic flavor of the punch to conceal the alcoholic taste from her.
“Umm. That’s very nice.” Hattie sipped the triple-strength punch appreciatively. “Very nice indeed,” she conceded, as she tossed off half a tumbler with gusto.
Mr. Simpson was slower to appreciate the qualities of the punch. He tasted it doubtfully, and was dismally certain that it was, in truth, nonalcoholic. But it was pleasant to the palate, and he emptied his glass with much bobbing of his Adam’s apple.
Then he set the glass down and smacked his lips. He swallowed twice, and hesitated. A questioning look came into his eyes as a warm glow spread through his stomach. He looked at Sonia enquiringly.
She winked at him deliberately. A slow smile appeared on his lips, but he changed to stern gravity as he turned toward Hattie.
“Have some more punch,” he said solicitously. “It’ll be my treat next time.”
“Wait till I finish this,” Hattie said gayly. “It does hit the spot, doesn’t it?”
Sonia lit another cigarette and sat back to watch Hattie and Mr. Simpson with tolerant amusement. The punch disappeared from the pitcher at an alarming rate, and with each glass Cousin Hattie declared more gayly that it was, indeed, a wonderful punch.
Chapter Thirteen
Robert saw nothing and heard nothing during the entire dreadful walk from the Brinkleys’ to the hotel. He was like one who fights to break through the grip of a terrible nightmare. It seemed to him that he moved in utter solitude and darkness.
Over, and over, and over, Barbara’s damning words jarred through his brain. They were like maggots which drove out every other thought. His mind was blank, holding only the knowledge of Barbara’s unfaithfulness.
He did not suffer. The shock was too great for that. It had a peculiarly numbing effect. Suffering would come with coherent thought. Now he walked in the dark shadow of despair.