Turning slightly, Churchill looked across at the slender, boyish figure at the farther side of the room. His glance was disrespectful, and Barth was keenly conscious of the disrespect. He made a manful effort to assert himself.
“Jolly sort of night, Miss Howard,” was the only bubble that effervesced from his mind.
Nancy felt a wave of petulant sympathy sweeping over her. Long experience of her guest had taught her the meaning of that swift motion of his head and shoulders, and she feared what might follow, both for Barth’s sake and her own. She dreaded any possible injury to the feelings of the young Englishman; she dreaded still more the hearing Churchill’s irreverent comments upon a man whom she had grown proud to number among her loyal friends. Never had Barth appeared more impenetrably dull, never more obdurately British! It was the mockery of fate. Just when she was praying that he might be at his best, he turned monosyllabic, and then completed his disgrace by talking about the weather. Meanwhile her annoyance was forcing all ideas from her own brain, and her answering question was equally banal.
“Is it cold, to-night?”
Barth was not impenetrable, by any means. He felt Nancy’s embarrassment, was keenly alive to her efforts in his behalf. The knowledge only rendered him more tongue-tied than ever; but his blue eyes smiled eagerly back at her, as he responded, with admirable brevity,—
“Oh, rather!”
“Joe, what is it?” Nancy demanded, as she followed her strangling guest out into the hall.
Churchill was walking to and fro, coughing and teary.
“Nancy Howard,” he said, as soon as he could speak; “will you kindly tell me what manner of thing that is?”
Then Nancy asserted herself. Erect and gracious in her dainty evening gown, she turned back and stood on the threshold.