Da Souza spread out his hands—an old trick, only now the palms were white and the diamonds real.
“For myself,” he declared, “I find them charming. It is my wife who says to me, 'Hiram, those young persons, they are not fit company for our dear, innocent Julie! You shall speak to Mr. Trent. He will understand!' Eh?”
Trent had finished his toilet and stood, the hairbrushes still in his hands, looking at Da Souza's anxious face with a queer smile upon his lips.
“Yes, I understand, Da Souza,” he said. “No doubt you are right, you cannot be too careful. You do well to be particular.”
Da Souza winced. He was about to speak, but Trent interrupted him.
“Well, I'll tell you this, and you can let the missis know, my fond father. They leave to-morrow. Is that good enough?”
Da Souza caught at his host's hand, but Trent snatched it away.
“My dear—my noble—”
“Here, shut up and don't paw me,” Trent interrupted. “Mind, not a word of this to any one but your wife; the girls don't know they're going themselves yet.”
They entered the dining-room, where every one else was already assembled. Mrs. Da Souza, a Jewess portly and typical, resplendent in black satin and many gold chains and bangles, occupied the seat of honour, and by her side was a little brown girl, with dark, timid eyes and dusky complexion, pitiably over-dressed but with a certain elf-like beauty, which it was hard to believe that she could ever have inherited. Miss Montressor and her friend sat on either side of their host—an arrangement which Mrs. Da Souza lamented, but found herself powerless to prevent, and her husband took the vacant place. Dinner was served, and with the opening of the champagne, which was not long delayed, tongues were loosened.