“Feel sorry for him if he does,” the other replied with a meaning grin. “He’ll get the worst of it—Druid’s some athlete.”
Crimmins was still conscience-stricken. “Perhaps we should have gone with him?” he suggested.
“Nonsense! Take my advice and always keep out of other people’s quarrels. Come on, have another ball, and then I’m going to turn in.”
It was mid-night when Elinor Benton arrived at Templeton Druid’s studio apartment—a delightful hour, she thought, shivering deliciously, to be arriving anywhere, and unaccompanied. Since she had made her début, it was not at all unusual for her to be dancing in the small hours and twelve o’clock usually saw the top of the excitement. But always she had conventionally arrived at dance or reception or whatever gayety along with those of all her set at much more seasonable hours. Templeton and all his friends were so excitingly different. But still when she had thrown aside her ermine wrap with the solicitous aid of her hero himself, who did not neglect to give her arm an affectionate squeeze, she found herself, among the bizarre appointments of the actor’s home—and his astonishingly elated and at ease guests, a bit diffident and shy. But not for long. For an ingénue, Elinor Benton found she was able with great ease to adapt herself to the unfamiliar atmosphere. Perhaps it may have been something in the weird lighting effects; perhaps the subtle perfume of the Orient that rose in hazy fumes from swinging censers, the dim reflection of the lighted sconces on mirrors that made the restless guests seem figures in a pageant and far off, with eerie faces that so effectually drowned her diffidence and made her senses whirl with abandon like the fumes of a heady wine. Or maybe it was the possessive, lover-like attitude of Templeton Druid himself that bade her throw aside stilted convention and become one of those with whom her hero surrounded himself. However, it may have been, Elinor Benton, débutante, at the end of ten minutes of her first visit to Templeton Druid’s apartments might have been long a woman of the world, the stage world, which, until the time of his opportune recognition by Geraldine DeLacy had been the man’s only world.
Introductions, had she but known it, were of no account in that assemblage, but Templeton Druid remembering her social training, did not dispense with them with his favored guest. To each, as he made the circle of the long studio room, he introduced her as “his dearest little friend”—not forgetting to add that she was the daughter of Hugh Benton, the financier.
Another round of cocktails was served. The somewhat blasé guests took heart. Dinner was announced, and the fun began to wage fast and furious. Elinor was enjoying every minute of it. Here was a party worth while, she thought. What a wonderful crowd of whole-hearted, happy-go-lucky people. And she would soon be one of them—after she and Templeton were married! She would give all sorts of dinners and parties, and invite this same crowd of charming, congenial people.
As befitted the most honored guest, she was seated next to her host at the table. At first he was discreetness personified in all his actions toward her. But as the dinner progressed and he imbibed more and more freely of the various wines the possession of which only he could have explained, he threw all caution to the winds. Openly he avowed his passion for her.
“I’m mad about you, darling,” he whispered, bending his head close to her ear. “Each time I see you, I want you more and more for my very own.”
Elinor listened with shining eyes.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, dear,” she nodded, “because there’s something I want to talk to you about. The most disagreeable thing has happened at home and——”