The dinner at Ritter's proved a brilliant affair, but Sir Horace experienced an unexpected disappointment, when he discovered that instead of being a guest at a pleasant little informal meal, he and his nephew were two in a party of thirty. The menu was everything that a Homburg menu could, and should, be; the company were crême de la crême; but the crafty Baronet realised that this kind of entertainment afforded no opportunities to advance his schemes. He and Malcolm might as well have dined at their own hostelry—save that in that case, they would have been obliged to pay for their food.
A long table, carefully screened from public gaze, was decorated with a profusion of roses and silver; the company were smart, and Madame herself was magnificent in black and gold, with touches of crimson—her natural taste was for the primary colours, and many jewels, but this weakness was sternly repressed by a strong-willed French maid.
The hostess was supported by a titled guest on either hand, ate a hearty (and extremely unwholesome) meal, and enjoyed herself prodigiously. Sir Horace sat beside a talkative, elderly dame, a neighbour entirely after his own heart. They were in the same set, and exchanged quotations from letters, highly spiced morsels of gossip, and nodded and cackled, as they consumed various delicacies, and sipped dry champagne.
Malcolm Haig was by no means so fortunate, for he was placed between a deaf man and a plain dowdy woman. Far, far away, on the opposite side of the table, he espied Miss Chandos—and the Prince—the former was more beautiful than ever without her hat; the wealth of her wonderful hair, exposed in all its glory, made a fitting frame for her brilliant face.
She wore a gown of white lace, with long sleeves, a chain of splendid pearls, and to his romantic imagination seemed the dazzling embodiment of a princess in a fairy tale. The Prince, who was eating little, talked to her incessantly, enforcing his conversation with flashing eyes and quick, impassioned gestures.
What was he saying? Malcolm watched and wondered; finally he arrived at the conclusion that he was making love after the most approved Italian mode, and became sensible of a flaming desire to go round and punch his sleek head.
Poor Allessandro! he really was devoted to the lovely English Signorina. He could not sleep, he would not eat, he chiefly existed on cigarettes and her society—and yet he was a little afraid of his enchantress. She was so fascinating, yet elusive; always charming and gracious, but when he became sentimental she laughed with heartless indifference and brushed all his tender compliments aside. And then she was so rich! Mother of Heaven, what a fortune! With this girl, and her money, his existence would be heaven on earth. Good-bye for ever to insolent creditors, to third-class tickets, shabby clothes and undignified poverty.
"Ah, Verona," he murmured, "you are called after one of our most beautiful towns; you ought to belong to Italy."
"Do you think so?" she answered gaily; "then, in that case, you should belong to Turkey!"
"I would ever belong to where you were," he murmured tenderly.