Rosamond Veynol stopped short just inside the door and every vestige of color left her face.
Everybody remembered then, and everybody was scared. It was a tryingly dramatic moment.
Carleigh, astounded and greatly confused, half-rose in his place and bowed slightly and awkwardly. Miss Veynol bent her head without looking at him. The Countess of Cross Saddle pretended to know or notice nothing.
One man whistled under stress of the moment and then turned deeply crimson. The butler, who knew details of which all his superiors were naturally ignorant—he being a regular reader of British Society—let fall a muffin cover.
And then, suddenly, everybody perceived that the only space left vacant at table was the space next to Carleigh, and saw with horror that one of the men who knew nothing had pushed a chair in there for the newcomer.
Miss Veynol looked waveringly about. The countess choked.
"Of course you two are old friends—" she began.
And then, her tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth, she rose hastily, stammered something quite unintelligible about the injured woman upstairs, and precipitately fled.
"I had better go, too," Carleigh murmured, starting to rise. "I—I—" He would have sold his soul to be able to say, "am betrothed to Mrs. Darling." But he wasn't sure she was going to die, and so he didn't dare.
Nevill Dalgries, who had the place on the other side of him, and being a good friend, was awfully sorry, put out a strong hand and pulled him back into his seat again.