The Sparrow rubbed his pointed nose thoughtfully.
"Change the two of 'em to another table, can't you?"
"I've got 'em all sorted, though. Unless—I might change Billy and the Farquhar girl to their table, and put them in the boudoir balcony! Billy wouldn't mind and the Farquhar girl doesn't matter; she didn't get me those tickets, anyhow."
The Sparrow gave a little hop of satisfaction.
"Right. That'll do famously."
So the Cassowary went back to the table and laid her hand on Joyselle's sleeve. "I have put you at another table, M. Joyselle. You go to the boudoir balcony—Sophy will take you there—so it's all right. I must go and find Billy Vere now. Oh——" turning, she found herself face to face with Brigit Mead, who had just arrived.
"I say, Brigit, would you mind sitting at the table with M. Joyselle? Eugene Struther is your man, and M. Joyselle objects to his table because it is number thirteen."
Brigit, shaking hands with her enthusiastic hostess, caught Joyselle's eye. He had heard.
"Mind? Not a bit," she answered carelessly, "if he doesn't."
Mrs. Newlyn turned, to find the top of Joyselle's head presented to her in a bow of mockly-resigned acquiescence. "Then, that's all right. What's the matter, Oliver?"