“At my rooms,” Wolfenden said, turning away and resuming his seat at the other table.
Densham had made no attempt whatever to join in the conversation. Once his eyes had met Wolfenden’s, and it seemed to the latter that there was a certain expression there which needed some explanation. It was not anger—it certainly was not envy. Wolfenden was puzzled—he was even disturbed. Had Densham discovered anything further than he himself knew about this man and the girl? What did he mean by looking as though the key to this mysterious situation was in his hands, and as though he had nothing but pity for the only one of the trio who had met with any success? Wolfenden resumed his seat with an uncomfortable conviction that Densham knew more than he did about these people whose guest he had become, and that the knowledge had damped all his ardour. There was a cloud upon his face for a moment. The exuberance of his happiness had received a sudden check. Then the girl spoke to him, and the memory of Densham’s unspoken warning passed away. He looked at her long and searchingly. Her face was as innocent and proud as the face of a child. She was unconscious even of his close scrutiny. The man might be anything; it might even be that every word that Felix had spoken was true. But of the girl he would believe no evil, he would not doubt her even for a moment.
“Your friend,” remarked Mr. Sabin, helping himself to an ortolan, “is a journalist, is he not? His face seems familiar to me although I have forgotten his name, if ever I knew it.”
“He is a journalist,” Wolfenden answered. “Not one of the rank and file—rather a dilettante, but still a hard worker. He is devoted to his profession, though, and his name is Harcutt.”
“Harcutt!” Mr. Sabin repeated, although he did not appear to recollect the name. “He is a political journalist, is he not?”
“Not that I am aware of,” Wolfenden answered. “He is generally considered to be the great scribe of society. I believe that he is interested in foreign politics, though.”
“Ah!”
Mr. Sabin’s interjection was significant, and Wolfenden looked up quickly but fruitlessly. The man’s face was impenetrable.
“The other fellow,” Wolfenden said, turning to the girl, “is Densham, the painter. His picture in this year’s Academy was a good deal talked about, and he does some excellent portraits.”