"Curse me, if I can understand it—or you," he said, his hand tugging at his dyed mustache. "You told me, God knows how long ago, that he was 'on' again; then he bolts—disappears."
"Do you want all these people to hear you?" she asked, her eyes hidden by her slowly moving fan.
Her father had been several times to the refreshment buffet, and had "lowered"—as he would have put it—the best part of a bottle of champagne, and was a little off the guard which he usually maintained so carefully.
"They can't hear. I'm not shouting. And you always evade me. You're not behaving well, Luce. Dash it all! I've reason to be anxious! This match means a good deal to me in the present state of our finances!"
"Hush!" she whispered warningly. "I can't explain now. I don't understand it myself; but I've seen enough to know that I should only lose him altogether if I tried to force him. You know him, or ought to do so! Did you ever get anything from Drake by driving him? He had no opportunity of speaking, of explaining."
"By gad! I don't understand it!" he muttered. "Either you're engaged to him or you're not. You led me to believe that the match was on again——"
The fan closed with a snap, and her blue eyes flashed at him with bitter scorn.
"Hadn't you better leave me to play the game?" she asked. "Or perhaps you think you can play it better than I can? If so——The man has stopped; Drake will be down again. I don't want him to see us talking. Go—and get some more champagne."
Lord Turfleigh swore behind the hand that still fumbled at his mustache, and walked away with the jerky, jaunty gait of the old man who still affects youth, and Lady Luce composed her lovely face into a look of emotional ecstacy.
"Oh, how beautiful, Drake!" she said. "Do you know that I have been very nearly crying? And yet it was so sweet, so—so soothing! Who is he? And what are we going to do now?" she asked, without waiting for an answer to her first question, about which she was more than indifferent.