The old lady curtsied in stately fashion.
"Yes, my lord."
"Then it's high time Mr. Falconer—and the rest of us—were at it," he said; and, with a smile and a nod, he left the gallery.
He would have taken Falconer with him to the supper in the banquet room below, but he knew that, though none of the men or women there would have remarked, or cared about, the old velvet jacket, the musician would be conscious of it, and be embarrassed by it.
While Drake had been absent, Lady Luce had stood, apparently listening with profound attention and sympathy, but the movement of her fan almost gave her away, for it grew rapid now and again, and when Lord Turfleigh came up beside her, his hawklike eyes glancing sharply, like those of a bird of prey, from their fat rims, she shot an angry and unfilial glance at him.
"Where's Drake?" he asked, lowering his thick voice.
"Up there in that gallery somewhere; gone to pay compliments to that fiddler fellow who is playing now."
"Gad!" said his lordship, with a stare of contempt at the rapt audience. "What the devil does he want with the 'Dead March in Saul,' or whatever it is, in the middle of a dance. Always thought he was mad! Has he spoken, said anything?"
He lowered his voice still more, and eyed her eagerly.
She shook her head slightly by way of answer, and the coarse face reddened.