She rose, and flashed a quick smile upon Ennison behind her husband’s back.
“You must come and see me some afternoon,” she said to him.
He murmured his delight, and joined the bridge party, where he played with less than his accustomed skill. On the way home he was still thoughtful. He turned in at the club. They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days.
“She has improved her style,” someone declared. “Certainly her voice is far more musical.”
Another differed.
“She has lost something,” he declared, “something which brought the men in crowds around the stage at the ‘Ambassador’s.’ I don’t know what you’d call it—a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. She sings better perhaps. But I don’t think she lays hold of one so.”
“I will tell you what there is about her which is so fetching,” Drummond, who was lounging by, declared. “She contrives somehow to strike the personal note in an amazing manner. You are wedged in amongst a crowd, perhaps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you are almost out of sight. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it. You feel that that smile is for you, the words are for you, the whole song is for you. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself.”
“And if you are a millionaire like Drummond,” someone remarked, “you send round a note and ask her to come out to supper.”
“In the present case,” Drummond remarked, glancing across the room, “Cheveney wouldn’t permit it.”
Ennison dropped the evening paper which he had been pretending to read. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth.