Ames gave her a dazed smile, patted her hand heavily, and drank. “ ’S’a mistake!” he said. “Had one a minute ago. Oughtn’t to have any more. But mus’ drink with Essel—Ethel.” He beamed across at Stacey. “Told you so, Carroll. See her for yourself now. Friendly. Not warm or cold, but friendly.”
Again she turned to Stacey. “You believe him?”
“No.” He stared at her fiercely. “Will you chuck Ames and run off somewhere with me?”
“Yes, later,” she replied coolly, “when he’s quite drunk. I don’t want a scene. I hate scenes.” And she turned back to Ames.
Throughout the whole dinner she paid no more attention to Stacey, talking instead, with smiles and a coarsened voice, to her escort. But, beneath the table, her ankle was curved about Stacey’s, and now and again he felt it tremble, and trembled, too. But no touch of emotion was in her voice.
He had begun this merely as a savage joke on Ames. He was physically stirred now and going on with it eagerly, in search of oblivion.
After a while, Ethel being in sprightly conversation with Ames, Whittaker leaned close to Stacey. “I say! what’s the matter?” he demanded. “Wake up and get busy, Carroll!”
“Oh,” said Stacey calmly, “that’s all right! It’s all arranged. We’re only waiting for Ames to get completely blind. Miss Wyatt doesn’t want a scene.”
Whittaker stared, then laughed. “My heartiest apologies!” he exclaimed. “You’re a cool pair!”
“Where am I going to go from here?”