Abinger did not approach her again; neither did he dance. He lounged conspicuously in a doorway, and if anyone spoke to him, he snarled at them and they went hastily away. When the fifth dance came, he waited until the music began; then walked across to where Poppy was sitting, offered his arm nonchalantly, and they took the floor together. When they had been dancing for a few moments he spoke:
"Poppy ... to-night?"
"To-night," her pale lips gave back answer. Her feet moved in time to the waltz, but she lay half fainting in his arms. He had the daring to bend his head and touch her face with his burning lips. Amid the flashing lights of jewels, and the whirling faces, it was almost safe to have gone unnoticed; everyone was too busy to watch what others were doing.
But there happened to be a man standing in a doorway, hiding his grey travelling tweeds behind two or three immaculates, who were trying to persuade him that it would be quite a remarkable joke if he would come in as he was, and pirouette amongst the dancers.
"Come on now, Carson ... give us a taste of the old Karri of old, mad days," a Rand man was saying; and Carson, though listening and laughing, was watching two people in the room. So it happened that he saw the kiss—and the woman's face almost lying on Abinger's shoulder. How could he know that she was dazed, half unconscious, not knowing what she did, or caring? Abruptly he pushed through the laughing group and stood full in the doorway. For an instant he was on the verge of trampling over everyone in the room to get to those two and tear them apart; for an instant the other men thought they were going to have a return of mad Carson with a vengeance, and were sorry they had spoken; one of them laid a hand on his arm. But in that instant a woman's eyes had met Carson's—long, topaz-coloured eyes, full of eager welcome and tenderness. The next moment he had flung away from the other men, and was striding through the wide vestibule, down the Town Hall steps towards a rickshaw, to take him God knew where. As he put his foot on it a hand fell to his shoulder, and Brookfield's voice to his ear—full of relief.
"Carson! By gad! I'm glad you're back; Capron's cut his throat, and they say he's dying at the Club. Come on!"
Carson stared at him with a stunned air.
"Capron!" he stammered.
"Yes; sliced his head off nearly. He was too drunk to go home, so they hid him in Ferrand's room at the Club with Portal in charge. But while Portal was out of the room for a moment, Nick found Ferrand's best razor."
"Well, I can't come," said Carson roughly, after a pause. "I have business of my own."