There was a twitter of mocking protest from the women. Baskinelli began to play again.
"Pauline, may I speak to you—just a moment?" Harry's vexed voice reached her ear as she stood beside the piano. She turned slowly and looked into his bewildered, angry eyes.
"A little later—possibly," she answered, and instantly turned back to Baskinelli.
From her no mask of music, no glamour of others' admiration could hide the predatory obsequiousness of Baskinelli. She was not in the least interested in Baskinelli. She had loathed him from the moment when she had looked down on his little oily curls. But if Baskinelli had been Beelzebub he would have enjoyed the favor of Pauline that evening—at least, after Harry had arrived.
The glowing piquant beauty of Pauline enthralled Baskinelli. He had never before seen a woman like her—innocent but astute, daring but demure, brilliant but opalescent. When at last they strolled away together into the conservatory his drawing room obeisances became direct declarations of love.
Pauline began to be frightened.
She fluttered to the door of the conservatory. But there she paused. Voices sounded from the end of a little rose-rimmed alley. They were the voices of Harry and Lucille.
Baskinelli was at her side again.
"If I have said anything—done anything to offend," he said, with affected contrition, "you will let me make my lowliest apologies, won't you?"
Pauline hardly heard him. She was intently listening to the low pitched voices.