“Nothing,” she said, ungraciously, and began to walk toward the door. He followed her.
“I said I was going alone,” she said, under her breath.
“But—”
She faced him suddenly, flamed out at him. “Go away,” she said. “Have I got to shout at you?... I don’t want you.... I don’t want anybody.... I’m going home.”
“I will see you to your car,” he said. “Careful. People are looking at us.”
She walked rapidly to the elevator; it was as though she tried to run away from him, but he followed closely. They descended, and she disappeared into the dressing-room.
“Miss von Essen’s car,” Cantor said to the doorman.
Presently she reappeared, and was about to leave the club, it appeared, without noticing his presence. He followed her outside and opened the door of her car. She stepped in and flung herself upon the seat. “Home,” she said, but did not look at Cantor. He shrugged his shoulders and closed the door.
He did not go again to the table that had been prepared for himself and Hildegarde, but entered the grill, where he selected a table in a distant corner, where he sat biting his lip.
“She’s in love with him,” he said to himself with the air of a man making a mathematical calculation. “Um!... All the better, perhaps.... Something may be made of it.”